


A Bane of Blood

by TomSevenstrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Character Death, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gore, Love, Prostitution, R plus L equals J, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Swearing, Swordfighting, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 110,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomSevenstrings/pseuds/TomSevenstrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow does not travel north to join the Night's Watch, but instead, having learnt the truth of his parentage, sails the Narrow Sea to seek his other blood... </p><p>... the blood of the dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Prologue**

 

The dark black courser shied away from his grip, Hullen pulled the reins harder.

Three of them, they were. Still in Winterfell’s grey courtyard. Lord Eddard Stark’s was the grulla steed, with a ruffling shaggy mane and a long snout. The lord’s son, Robb Stark had the chestnut mare, a swift thing. Though they were ever obedient when Hullen would lead them back to the stables after a ride, it was the Bastard Jon Snow’s mount which relented. So unnaturally dark, not the seal brown like that of Hullen’s own son, Harwin, this one was so dark it shined the brightest.

Hullen yanked the reins once more, urging the horse forward. Mud squelched beneath their feet, it had rained the night before, though that seldom set the beasts to worry. In his left hand, he held both the fresh leather straps of the lord’s and the lord’s son horses, and he was half-tempted to drop the straps in his right and leave the horse to rutting. I shall tell the lord of this, he thought as he pulled again, the thing is wild.

“Easy...” A voice emerged, and soon appeared Jon Snow. In one arm, bundled in a ball of white fur, was one of the direwolves that they had found on their ride back to Winterfell. Hullen did not like the beast’s presence, even now, such things should be kept beyond the Wall, where they were sired, away from the realms of men, and him.

Jon Snow took the reins from his hand, the black beasts lowered its neck and fell into line. I won’t try that one again, Hullen shrugged and began his way to the stables, the boy began following him, each step trudging in the wet mud.

It was a cold morning, the air seemed to smell of it, and everything had a blue-grey sheen that was cold to the touch and would melt beneath a fingertip. Hullen was more than familiar with the words of the house he served, and when he had watched the Night’s Watch deserters head fall to justice beneath his lord’s Ice, the air seemed to grow even colder.

“Over there.” Hullen pointed to the far post, beside a growing pile of golden hay and a shelf of oaken buckets. It was dim from the shadow of the planks that covered it, and when the horse was left idle it seemed to disappear amongst them.

Hullen brought through the other two mounts and took them to their posts. They were well-fed, as all the horses in his care were, and their posts were neat and clean – as he would tend to them each day if he could find the time. Of late though, he had become busier in his duties within the castle, and so he noticed how the posts had grown dirty. On the morrow then, Hullen told himself, I will clean then come the morn. He would have to bring the horses from their stables, lead them to the courtyard saw he could see to it clearly. Lady Arya would ride her mount with Harwin, as they so often did, and Robb and Jon Snow would go for a hunt. The less of them there was, the easier it would be.

When Hullen turned, he saw the bastard had taken his leave.

The stable was empty but for racks of horses, those of the liege lord and lady, their children. In here, there were the rows for the mounts of the men-at-arms and freeriders, knights and guests of high birth. Though those posts were empty for the moment, they had not had a royal visit since Hullen could remember, and seldom did freeriders and hedge knights take their stay in the north.

Hullen carried the horse’s saddles to the bench, where he saw Jon Snow had already settled that of his mount. As he set them down, one on top of the other, the door to the stables swung open with a creak.

“Father?” Harwin called, his voice breathy from running.

“What is it, son?” Hullen turned and made his way past the posts and to the entrance.

Harwin was clad in wool and leather, a fine cloak of green dropped down his back. His face unshaven and cheeks red from the cold.

“We’re feasting in the Great Hall, come with.”

Hullen was hungry, working always made him hungry. “Once I’ve finished my work here first. The horses… afterwards, I will come with you once I’m finished.”

Harwin gave a sigh, his shoulders slouching. He more often than not remarked how his father was growing less fond of company of late, though Hullen thought that was nonsense. He was master of horse, he had his duties, to those that fed him and gave his son a life to enjoy, he would not fail them.

“Go. I will be there, soon.” Hullen waved his hand before he turned back to the posts. He heard Harwin leave, the door swinging and croaking and groaning, the gush of wing that sent the horses to shifting.

The horses needed to be brushed, their hooves cleaned of mud and rocks and dirt. And so, Hullen set about getting to his work.

Lord Starks mount was but easy to Robbs, and the little lords was easy but to the black beast belonging to Jon Snow – Hullen left the mount to the corner, he would have to find the boy and tell him that he must do the grooming himself, the horse bowed to no one but his rider.  

His son’s horse was a blood bay courser, and Harwin was so well at his riding he even taught the Stark boys at their riding on a quintain, and the little lady Arya Underfoot at her riding about the courtyard. Hullen was sure he would succeed him as master-at-horse when he became too old to perform his duties, though that was not near, yet, horses were an easy duty when you had been doing them as long as Hullen.

Once he had finished the horses, he removed his doeskin gloves and riding boots, changed into fine green wool and made for the Great Hall. It was not a large feast, he knew, they seldom held large feasts when without guests. Though the guards would often have their meals within the Great Hall, as Lord Stark granted, and Hullen would always be a part of them.

Hullen pushed open the doors with a groan, his shoulders aching. Inside, torches were lit on every pillar and the trestle tables about the corners were stacked and pushed against the walls. Three of them were placed in the middle, each one seized by guards and those who had their duties within the castle.

Platters and bowls, full with meat and bread and stew were rowed along each bench, setting Hullen’s mouth to watering. Those eating took their share and sat and jested with those around them. On the third table, Hullen spotted Arnol with his woodharp, singing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

_“Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair! Her hair! Her hair!”_

Hullen took his seat beside his son, smiling and reaching for a bowl of bread and meat stew.

“Finished with the horses?” Harwin asked him, waving his bread around in one hand.

“Yes, though that was the fourth deserter our lord has had to give the King’s Justice, it won’t be the last, I say.”

Harwin shrugged. “Well, enjoy your meals. You think far too less of yourself, father.”

“Or perhaps you think t’much.”

Hullen dabbed his white bread into the stew and brought it to his mouth, the taste was sweet and hot. His son passed him a goblet of wine and he drank that too, the red flaming through his chest like fiery tendrils.

_“The bear! The bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!”_

The doors pushed open, and in came Jory Cassel, the captain of the guard. He took his seat across Hullen.

“You heard?” He asked, Hullen had no incline to what though.

The master of horse shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, Jory took a bowl of stew and a goblet of wine.

“Robert Baratheon is on his way, on a visit. He comes with a large party, Queen Cersei and her brothers.”

“Why?” Harwin asked.

“The Hand Jon Arryn has died, in the capital. You know, he was the one who fostered our Lord and Robert at the Eyrie? The Lannister’s had their bit in that, I’d say, you can never trust them.”

Robert Baratheon would not come far north just to grieve in the arms of his friend, he had plenty in the capital, Hullen had heard.

He means to offer Eddard Stark the position of Hand.

Jory took a bite from his bread, swallowed and said. “I’m to form a riding party, and meet them on Kingsroad. An honour to our guests, what do you think, Hullen?”

That caught him off-guard. Hullen dropped his wooden spoon and shook his head. “I don’t have the time, myself.” He took his son by the shoulder. “Though my Harwin does, he should go with you.”

Jory looked to Harwin, awaiting an answer.

“Yes, I’ll go.” Harwin smiled and returned to his food, just as Arnol finished his song and moved to sing _The Dornishman’s Wife._

It was a pleasant time, Hullen ate and sat and listened as Arnol finished _The Dornishman’s Wife,_ then he listened as he sang the song of _Her Little Flower_ and then _Milady’s Supper, Bessa the Barmaid_ and _A Cask of Ale,_ Arnol would have to remember these well for when Robert Baratheon took to feasting, he had a love of songs, he’d heard.

When Hullen finally took his leave, the sky was dark and the air freezing.

He had his own hut, beside the stables. I fine thing it was, he had enough space for what he kept, a feather bunk for him to sleep him, and should the horses cause a stir then he was quick to check up on them; a simple place for a simple man.

Though Hullen passed the stables now, his hut and his bunk. He had been deep in his cups, and so the softness of his bed was heavy on his mind. But, there was something else too, someone, someone more important. Hullen arrived at the East Gate, doing his best to hide the slouch of his feet through the wet mud. The moon was high and crescent thin like the blade of a knife, yet it still shone down its bright eye on those below.

Owen and Arren were at duty on the East Gate, clad in rusting iron halfhelms and boiled leather, with sharp-tipped spears rising from their hands. Hullen knew the two of them well enough, often tending to their horses when they would request.

“Hullen, coming from the feast?” Owen had a short-trimmed beard, brown flecked with grey. His black spear was rested over his shoulder as he stood duty, bouncing as he talked.

“Aye,” Hullen told him, steadying himself. “Though I must be on my way to Winter Town, duty, you see.”

Owen smirked. “As you will.” Him and Arren moved aside, their boots squelching in the wet mud. Hullen passed without a second glance, that smirk had left him feeling uneasy.

Winter Town was without its full extent of people, but full enough. It took its name for a reason, and summer still stood as yet, when winter hit the North hard, the homes of Winter Town would fill with those seeking the warmth and protection of the looming castle above.

Hullen followed a narrow mud path, leading him through crenels and alleys between wooden buildings that leant against each other like drunken lovers. All the way to the center square, where markets and stalls now stood empty. Selling was frequent in the light of the day, but now those sellers either tucked their goods and turned away from Winter Town, or retreated to other places to bed down and come to sell again come the day. He came to a stop outside a building of three stories, the light from inside breaching the windows and large cracks in the planks. The noises within could be heard from the outside, talking, laughing, shouting. Hullen entered.

Mereya’s brothel was lit up with light from the scones upon the wooden beams and walls, fires were lit in tripod braziers and cackled away softly. Whilst drunken men and women and whores danced and drank and jested. It had been six whole years since his Elayna had died, mother to his own Harwin. He had gone five of those without the company of a woman, so much so he had forgotten them, the brothel was the only way.

He saw a whore seated upon a man’s lap, his hands fumbling down her bodice. He was drunk too, as most were, you could almost smell it in the air. In the corner, beside a guttering black hearth, two women had their mouths sealed against one another, their hands fumbling down each other’s dresses.

Hullen was not here for any of that, Mereya knows that, he thought as he saw the owner approaching.

“What can I get, milord?” She always called him _milord,_ just because he was master of horse. Many here took their duty within Winterfell, or beds when they decided not to visit this place.

Hullen knew who he wanted “My red beauty.” He said.

Mereya smiled and took his hand, her palm as soft as new leather, unlike his grungy own. She led them up narrow steps, each placing of the foot causing a creak as if it was about to break, though Hullen knew better, he had made this walk many times before. She left him outside a small wooden door, black with oldness.

He opened it slowly, and inside waited his beauty of red.

Red hair, she had, so red it shone in the light of the brazier. She was spread amongst the large featherbed of the room, as small as they were, the beds were always large enough for two or even three.

Her skin was pale and naked, save for a red silk sheet that rose from behind her shoulders, passed through the gap of her full breasts like a red river, and snaked out again from between her legs.

“I’ve missed milord.” She called him milord too, Anera was her name. And his was Hullen, he often told her that, but she never seemed to listen. “I was waiting for you, see.”

Anera swept a graceful hand down the red silk, causing ripples in his drunken mind and stirrings in his breeches. Such as she often did, Hullen would never have another woman.

He reached into his pocket, finding the golden dragon there and then flipped it to her. She was a whore still, no matter how beautiful she was, that even made her a better whore, but Hullen did not care anymore. A golden dragon was far more than what any whore deserved, and Hullen had earnt that through hard weeks of work, but he had to show her his appreciation – she was all he had dear, her and Harwin. And Hullen was not good with words of thanks.

She tried to catch the coin but missed, the golden dragon landed near her head, coming to a steady atop of the white sheets.

Anera seized it quick enough, nevertheless. She placed it down upon the wooden stool beside the bed and brought her hand back to the red river of silk, as red as her hair, her hair!

She pulled the silk away, revealing the red thatch on her mound. Hullen gasped a breath and unlaced his breeches, the rest was as it always was.

Come the morning, he was still in that dusky lit room. Though his red beauty was gone, and it too the golden dragon, he had fallen asleep after he had spent his seed inside her, drunken and sweating, he was older now.

No clientele was allowed to sleep within the rooms, but the golden dragon spoke more words than what he could, and so no gruff man or Mereya had come to wake him during the night. Hullen gathered his clothes from the floor, putting them back on as quick he could, nobody knew what _duty_ he had in Winter Town, well, Hullen hadn’t told a soul, yet it seemed everyone did know. The way Owen had smirked…

… it was Harwin learning of it that Hullen feared. Harwin loved his mother, as Hullen loved her too, he did not want to shame her memory for his own son.

A moon passed before Robert Baratheon arrived, in a party three hundred strong. Hullen stood amongst the lines ready to greet him in the courtyard of Winterfell, behind the Lord Eddard Stark, then Ser Rodrik Cassel, wrapped in a grey dappled fur cloak and leather tunic and breeches. Watching as the band streamed in, a collection of bannermen and knights, sworn swords and freeriders who may have joined mid-travel. The crowned stag of Baratheon streamed through the air, a proud standard, then came the lion of Lannister, Hullen caught sight of a joint banner where the two wear facing one another, that was held high beside Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer, Jory had said that the Queen’s brothers were attending them.

And so was the other brother, the Imp Tyrion Lannister. Astride his small gelding, Hullen would have to tend to that horse, tend to it for him. It was a relief compared to the others, each mount he caught site of made him want to sigh, the stables would be full, though he would have others to help him in his duties, it would be a lot more work. He would have to have Hodor help him more importantly.

The King himself was flanked by two of his Kingsguard, long white cloaks streaming from their shoulders. Robert Baratheon was sat atop a great warhorse, though the seal brown mount held more appeal than the King, in Hullen’s eyes. The man seating that saddle did not look worthy of it, he did not look like the fabled warrior who had taken the Iron Throne, the Demon of the Trident.

He was fat and red faced behind his beard. Yet he swung down ably from his warhorse with a bellowing roar and stalked over to Lord Stark, crushing him in a hug.

Hullen was three rows behind, though with everyone beside him quiet, he could hear their words. “Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours.” The King took a step backwards, then laughed. “You have not changed at all.”

You must have, though.

Of course, Hullen did not voice his thoughts to any of those around him, whether they took it for a jest or not. The Hound was coming to dismount his huge black stallion; Sandor Clegane had donned his great dog of a helm.

Eddard Stark finally replied. “Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

Many of the pride was dismounted by now, the Queen Cersei Lannister came forward on foot with those young children of hers, a prince and princess that Hullen had never actually seen. He’d never seen half of these people.

She was a beautiful woman, though. That, he had heard. Like he had been told of the gallant Robert Baratheon, though only the Queen seemed to give truth to the tales. His Lord knelt and kissed the Queens ring, whilst the King embraced his lord’s lady like a long-lost sister. Then there were the children, offering their shy greetings. Hullen could not see past Jon Snow, who stood a step in front, though he heard the muted talking.

Once the formalities were over, the King looked to Eddard again and said. “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.”

He’d never been down the crypts, it was a Stark place, and he would never go against them or their rules. But Lord Eddard could not deny the King entrance, but what would he want in the crypts? There were no Baratheon’s down there, Hullen knew, perhaps another kind gesture.

The Lord called for a lantern and they began their way, the Queen had protested until her golden brother took her by the arm, and then she said no more.

Those about the yards began to move, breaking the stone from the statues they had become. Hullen paced for the stables, he would have to show room for the new arrivals. Those around him paid no heed as she shuffled through, through the gap of two Kingsguard knights, past bannermen and those grasping the crowned standard, when he finally arrived at the stables, he was surprised to find it empty.

… save for a Hound.

He was tying the great courser to a black wooden beam, though Hullen suspected that the horse could as easily rip itself free.

“Watch this one.” Sandor Clegane said when he caught Hullen staring. “He’ll kick your teeth out.”

He already had Jon Snow’s horse in the stables of his, that dark thing of a mount, now this stranger of a mount. It would be a tough time, it would. The Others take them both!

The Hound’s snarling face smirked under his helm, and he stood towering over Hullen until the prince called him away.

As it was his duty, Hullen stood by the stables as the row of freeriders, bannermen and knights brought forward their mounts. He was able to store most in the posts, those that had the space at the darkened section by the back. With some, he was able to fit two or three in a single post, though that was only a certain some – he didn’t want to be awoken as he slept by the rustling of the horses, it was best to keep them in a single post.

All the while he kept his distance from the Hound’s steed, and so did the others. It would kick and groan if any other came near, man and horse alike.

It was Harwin who came to him again when the sky had grown darker and scattered with stars, Hullen was wiping his riding boots. As expected, Winterfell was hosting a large welcoming feast in greetings to the King. Unlike the one he had a moon ago, with Arnol singing his stream of songs on his woodharp and no one but him and the guards, this feast would have proper singers, and proper attendants, too.

Hullen would not catch the eye in there, but he followed his son eagerly.

He was right about that, there was a singer with a high harp reciting ballads, and Arnol was scarce to be seen. Banners of gold and white and crimson draped the walls, still and proud. Hullen couldn’t hear exactly what the singer was singing, though. Not over the clangor of cups and plates, cackles of the hearths and low mutterings of conversations.

The trestle tables were full to breaking, and so the master of horse could not get on with his son, instead he took a hesitant place on a far back table, seized by younger squires and the bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow.

It was not a surprise that he was not seated beside the royal children, beneath the raised platform for the Lord and Lady Stark. A bastard among them may offend their visitors, and Jon Snow did not seem to mind. He was taking a long drink of his wine when Hullen had finished filling his plate, and when that goblet was empty, the boy filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher and drank again.

Seated amongst the younger squires was not such a challenging thing as he had thought, they recalled tales of battle and bedding and the hunt, and eventually began to look to Hullen to tell them his own stories.

And so he did, and they listened eagerly. Jon Snow, though, he was focusing on something below the table, perhaps that white beast that he had brought back, it shouldn’t be allowed into a full Winterfell’s Great Hall, but his Lord and Lady did not seem to notice.

That was when the brother of the Night’s Watch approached, Benjen Stark wore costly black velvet, high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. About his neck a heavy silver chain looped and bounced slightly as he walked.

Hullen was across the table to them, and a seat down, he could hear them nonetheless.

“Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” Benjen asked, Jon turned and looked up happily as his uncle ruffled his hair. Perhaps Hullen should not have been watching, but he did.

“Yes,” Jon replied. “His name is Ghost.”

One of the squires etched to their side in order to form space for the man to sit, ceasing his bawdy story.

Once sat, Benjen took the wine cup out of Jon’s hand, Hullen’s was empty, he would have to call one of the serving girls for a refill, the pitcher near him was empty. “Summerwine,” he said after a small taste. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had Jon?”

If the boy replied, Hullen did not hear it over the roar of the fire and a hundred drunken conversations, though he saw a long smile that he offered.

Benjen returned it and laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you-”

A serving girl tapped Hullen on the shoulder, urging him to raise his cup to be refilled. He did so, licking his lips drunkenly as the wine fell, then returning to listening.

“A very quiet wolf.” Benjen Stark observed.

“He’s not like the others,” Jon began. “He never makes a sound. That’s why I named him Ghost. That, and because he’s white. The others are all dark, grey or black.”

Ah, the direwolves, Hullen thought again, the things. He had little interest in discussing them, or even listening to others do so. And so he drank at his cup in long gulps, ending his listening to the conversations of those across him. His mind was beginning to swim, perhaps he had drunk too much already that night.

But Hullen emptied his cup two more times before his drunken array was interrupted.

“I will never father a bastard.” Jon Snow suddenly said, his tone louder. “Never!” His words dripped and screamed with boyish determination.

The table had grown awfully quiet all of a sudden, the squires interrupting their tales to look back at the scene the boy was causing. Through the firelight, Hullen could see a wet shine begin to glisten on the boy’s eyes.  Jon Snow rose.

“I must be excused.” He said, as if courtesy was cared for so far away from the raised dais, or perhaps it was to save what dignity he had left. Though, that was quickly lost when he stumbled into a serving girl on his way out, sending a flagon of spiced wine crashing to the floor.

Hullen couldn’t help but laugh, as did the others, some even on other trestles. He hadn’t seen his Lord Eddard sweeping past, not until a second glance, the man followed the boy swiftly, out and through the door.

Then the wine rose to meet his mouth again.

Eventually, it was his own son that awoken him from his drunken stupor. Hullen was resting his head upon the table, arms outspread and goblet empty. The last that he could remember was a serving girl on his lap, then it was black.

Winterfell’s Great Hall was mostly empty now, the stone floors and oaken trestle tables scattered with food and spills and remains of what the night had been. The fires still cackled away, softly now though, though the air was thick and musty with the lingering smells of a feast. Harwin led him to his bunk by the stables, as drunk as he was, he made sure that Hullen got to bed down properly. And Hullen welcomed his sheets eagerly.

Hullen seldom dreamed, and tonight seemed all the same. His hut would often rattle in the winds, waking him, though the air was cold tonight the winds did not blow so heavily.

His own bed was where he wanted to be, and come the morn it would take all his effort to lift himself to face the duties of the day.

He was indeed soon awoken, though not by the rattle of his hut from the harsh winds outside, or the prodding of the horses nearby, it was a few firm taps on his shoulder.

Hullen opened his eyes, blinded by the open door shining in the light of the morning, in the dawning light was red…. two orbs of blood.

The direwolf!

He jumped back in his bunk, wood creaking, eyes wide. Jon Snow loomed over him, clad in riding leathers and thick fur cloak. The beast was at his heel.

“What? What do you want?”

Jon Snow had a look of concern about his face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He won’t hurt you, not whilst I’m here.”

Hullen calmed his breaths, through the open door a cold air entered, crawling up his skin. Though beyond he saw that the courtyard was empty, the castle still slept.

“Go back to bed, boy.” Hullen said, clutching his own sheets.

Jon Snow straightened himself. “I can’t,” the last Hullen had saw of him was when he left the hall in Winterfell, with tears in his eyes. He looked the same sad now, though reserved. “I will require a saddle readied, with my arms and armour. It seems I must take my leave.”

With a long wait and a sigh, Hullen did as he was asked.

 


	2. Over the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left good comments and feedback on the previous chapter. 
> 
> And PumpkinKingofGames, thanks for the assistance and pre-reads. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**JON**

He had lost sight of the granite walls… when exactly, he could not recall.

Jon rode on and scowled, rode on and cursed, and rode and rode and rode. Until that of his home was lost to the rolling hills, grey-green and flecked with frost. To the south they rolled on further, and to the close east pines stood in the distance like small green spires.

Below, Ranger pounded his hooves upon the frozen grass, planting cracking thuds to shatter the frost. I should’ve thanked Hullen, Jon thought to himself as he dug his heels once more, he helped me. Though Jon was not sure how far that loyalty stretched, whether the master of horse woke Eddard the minute he cleared the gates, that too, he did not know.

Ghost ran at his side, shot-white against the ground, red eyes burning. He wasn’t as fast as Ranger, not yet anyhow, and he couldn’t rip out throats as Hullen had feared. Soon, though… Jon eased his pace to keep the direwolf close, never losing sight, he would not lose him to the woods.

Tears still dried on his cheeks, so cold they burned. Why? He asked the ocean of grass beneath him, hopelessly. Why had my _father_ done this? Doing so made him feel even more lonely, made him hate, curse in anger. The truth he now knew, and it only hurt.

Did they know? His brothers and his sisters, did they keep it from him? No, he searched for sense, they wouldn’t. With each thud of Ranger’s hooves his mind loomed heavier. I’m sorry, Robb, Arya, Bran, he told the grass and the winds once again, hoping it would ease him.

It did not, Jon snow rode on further.

The White Knife was his means of guidance, follow the White Knife I’ll find White Harbor, and there a ship, and then... he did not to want to think on that yet, not whilst his wound still gaped fresh in his thoughts, not whilst he still rode, not until he was ready.

Ranger seemed to sense his troubles, dashing quicker than he had ever had. Jon watched as the sky turned its shade, as clouds broke and scattered and sun peaked its auburn fingers through the cracks. Watching sent him worry and hope, worry that he would soon awaken in his bedchamber, all this a folly dream. If so, Jon would rise, don his riding leathers and ride again over the hills until he so did accomplish that what he wished.

His hope, as dwindling as it was, grew as he caught no sight of riders behind him. He would not stop. He could not. He could not face them. What would he say? What could he do? He was not allowed to go north, to join the Night’s Watch his uncle, Eddard won’t allow it, he won’t. I cannot stay in Winterfell; with Robb and Bran and Rickon, I cannot decide my own fate.

Jon Snow would decide his fate. He was.

Hours passed without cease, the rattle of his scabbard and the heaves of Ranger, the things he had gathered in his saddle sack shaking noisily. The air soon grew lighter, easier to breathe. His thighs began to ache and grow sore from the saddle. Yet, he would not stop. Then came the groans of Ranger, from endless riding over the uneven hills of the north. He had done Jon well; he deserved a rest, however short it would be.

Jon rode to the bank of stream, he had heard it as he rode, it was one smaller to that of the White Knife, Jon assumed they came to join further south. That did not matter now though. Dismounting before the wall of trees and thorny hedges that stood beside the marked and plenty ridden path, leading Ranger through on foot. It was empty, as expected, and the green leaves above shot pale reflections against the moving water.

Ranger was eager and thirsty, the horse stepped forward and craned its neck to take long drinks, stamping his hooves of the dirt. Jon slowly followed, biting back winces with each step.

With his hands, he cupped what water he could gather and splashed it against his face. Sighing, licking his lips, it was so very cold, and relieving. Jon fell back to his knees.

He would not rest long, that he knew well, the less he moved the more his mind began to spin…but for a moment, just a moment.

Across the shallow stream, another wall of tree and hedge stood to rattle back at him, though the pines grew thicker beyond that point, into a wood before it broke at the White Knife. He need not go deeper into those trees, as it seemed, he didn’t have to cloak himself behind anything at all, he had seen no other since the startled face of Hullen. Towards Jon’s left, the stream spiraled downwards, cased either side by the trees and hedge on and on and on.

Ghost soon emerged from behind him, splashing his paws into the water and lapping within it. Jon laughed despite himself and beckoned the wolf closer, ruffling his ears with a gloved hand.

Though as Ghost usually took his rest beside him, flat upon his belly, now he wavered, approaching the line of trees at Jon’s back, ears stood at attention.

“What is it?” Jon asked, turning to look.  Ranger then spun around, snarls shaking from his throat. Something was wrong.

Jon crawled on his hands and knees, mud creaking into the leather of his breeches and his black moleskin gloves. Through the brown twigs and rattling leaves of green and orange, Jon swept his vision from left to right, beyond was as normal as it had been, nothing was amiss.

But Ghost was still alarmed, pacing and snarling, his fangs bared. Jon ran his hands through the white bristles. “It’s fine, Ghost, calm.”

Then, from afar, a shout echoed in his ears.

Terror shot through him, like daggers chipping his insides head to toe. Riders, they must have been looking for him. No, they couldn’t have caught up. Ghost still paced restlessly, and Ranger snarled again.

Eddard, he’s come to find me, Jon could see even now, grey eyes dark with disappointment. He could he see Benjen shaking his head, clicking his tongue. He could feel the scowl of Catelyn, the resentment of Robb and Bran and Arya and Sansa, the laughs of Theon… I had to go, he could feel a lump gathering in his throat as the shouts grew louder and the sound of riders swept over the stream.

Jon turned his head to gaze north again through the hedges, upwards a company of riders fell from the peak of a hill and came streaming downwards. They carried no banner, but that did little to soothe his worry, Ned would not risk his missing leaking amongst the lords.

Show yourself, go back, a voice insisted. Jon did not move.

Ghost still lapped, eyes blazing like fire. Jon quickly reached for him, grasping the direwolf firmly and holding him to his chest. No rider would spot him through the shrub if he was laying down, and Jon did so, he did not intend to be found.  Ranger looked upon his rider, Jon hushed him, and thank the Old Gods, the horse seemed to calm.

The aching in his thighs were forgotten, the sour taste in his mouth turned to naught and all he could hear was the stamp of hooves, stamping, stamping, stamping.

Jon fisted his hands into Ghost’s fur, and closed his eyes to face them. He could try to run, but they would soon catch him.

One of them sounded again, his voice stretching through the small elms and shrubs that covered the stream. And then they came so close he could hear the clink of the scabbards shaking against their legs, the huffs of their breathing.

Go, I cannot go back.

Go, I will not.

Go.

They went.

The sounds of their horses grew faint in the distance, until it was only the wind again, the rattling... and his own breath.  Jon knew they had missed him. They had passed..

He let free his grip on Ghost and slouched his body against the mud, sighing in relief. The coils turning in his belly calmed, and Ranger returned to his water. He did not see himself craven, but this was different.

He could rest no longer.

Jon Snow climbed atop his steed once more an ushered a small trot, he decided to continue the next few leagues behind the cover of the shrubs, where he would be concealed from any riders passing. Until he saw it fit to expose himself on the roads, he would have to make use of the muddy wet paths by the stream. It would cost his distance, dearly, but he would reach White Harbor soon enough. _He would reach it._

The path became even wetter as he went on, with scattered flecks of green grass daring to poke out, only for Ranger to trample them with his hooves. To his left the stream swept along and at the trees still shook at his right, though they were growing scarcer now. The hidden track would serve for such a time, until it met the White Knife and the mud delved into the water.

The leaves shot shadows around him, yet Jon could still see how it grew darker and darker, a day was coming to end and he was still riding, still running. His legs were numb now and he gripped the reins loosely, I am tired, though I mustn’t rest, not yet.  He could rest in White Harbor, in the bunk of a ship as it sailed. The Free Cities, Jon could still hear the way Ned’s voice quivered when he spoke, Pentos, he had said, though they are a world away, and my knowledge is treason. You deserve the truth; I know that now. Then he had left.

A world away, how far could that be? He was yet to reach White Harbor, and his hopes and will and wishes were sunken.

He could not stay like this.

Jon spurred Ranger rightwards, Ghost following, and passed through the thinning shrubbery and onto the clear paths again. A world away it was, and a world he would cross.

He was alone still, as he hoped. He was too tired to do anything else but sway in the saddle. Around him, the pale green grass began growing darker and darker… then black.

Jon’s eyes closed, his rested his head over Ranger’s neck and hung his arms loosely. Sleep took him.

Though this night he did not dream, not like other nights he did. He seemed to float, there was only the pain, the sickness in his stomach, and the whispering of the stars. He woke at what seemed an instant after he had closed his eyes, though the sky above him was light and dappled with morning clouds, and the grass was frozen all over again.

And in the distance, there it was.

The light had just breached the tall pines and rolling hills, and the staggering tower of hill before him shot a dark shadowy frame. That was where New Castle was, Jon knew, he did not plan to go there. He could not see much for the walls from the south of White Harbor, being a port city, it faced the sea, the East, Pentos, Ned said, Pentos.

Jon smiled and laughed, patting Ranger firmly on the neck. He had expected to wake with still leagues of riding ahead of him, instead Ranger had covered it whilst he slept. Had it taken him days? He was tired. As his eyes came to look around him, he noticed he was travelling down a narrow grey trodden path, further onwards more and more people walked. That alluded Jon, if these people caught eye of Ghost, then that could mean his own troubles. Jon beckoned closer the direwolf and lifted him up with an arm, then gently wrapped him within a grey woolen saddle sack, amongst the things he had gathered from Winterfell, hanging from his saddle. Only for now, he thought as Ghost rustled, I’m sorry. Then he seemed to calm.

He crossed a grey wrinkling man, beside an oxcart being labored by a mule. Filled as it was, with sacks and sacks of grain, they moved steadily down the path. Beside him, traveled a thick-furred dog, barking every now and then at fleas and grass.

As he stared, he began to realize, what if he was caught here? The riders, what if they had come to White Harbor under Ned’s orders? He must need another name, should any ask. Jon Snow, his was a bastard name, and many a folk in the north had not been without their stay in Winterfell or Winter Town, surely they would have heard of him.

The barking from the dog set Ghost to rustling, but Jon could not release him, and so he dug his heels and initiated a steady trot along the road, quickly passing those underfoot. Some shot him small glances, others did not care to. He was the only traveler mounted upon a horse, and how they slumped onwards made him feel pity for them.

White Harbor gave a sharp scent, Jon soon realized as he came closer to the gate, and salty, a little fishy too. Jon Snow knew it was from the smell of the sea that clung to the walls so fiercely.

The mud below turned even more sloppier as he neared the gate, the portcullis was raised, thankfully, and despite the early hour people streamed inwards and around, an ever-moving pool of black and grey and green. Almost all were clad in wools and leathers and some even velvets, he could see it all as he came to dismount.

He made the rest of his way towards the gate on foot, better to blend in without the eye of others on him, no one else had a horse, at least what he could see. Suddenly, Jon felt like he had never even been out of the granite walls of Winterfell, never looked upon a face other than Ned or Catelyn or Robb and Arya, he felt like a bastard boy.

Would he ever see their faces again?

He pulled his black hood over his head and gripped the supple leather handle of his longsword, for a moment his breath was caught in his throat.

The guards paid him little heed, dressed in green they were, as was fit when in service to the Manderly’s. They were barking amongst themselves, a tall man stood the center with a blackened ash pike in his hands. Jon passed without a second glance.

Within the walls, it was like he had entered a _different_ place. This was not the solemn north that Jon Snow knew. The cobbled streets were lined with buildings of whitewashed stone, orderly and neat and stretching on and on, their roofs steep and dark grey slate. Men and women and children went about themselves, uncaring of any others, it seemed, for that he was thankful. And along the ground, chickens seemed root their way around through the legs of those about their duties.

Jon walked on until he came to a cobbled square, centered with a merman fountain. Its beard a curly green and likeness white with lichen, in a hand he held a trident, though of the one prongs had fallen, it did not save Jon Snow of his awe. They weren’t such statues like this in Winterfell, only in the crypts were the Kings of Winter sat their thrones. If Winterfell was the heart of the north, why couldn’t it have such things for everyone to see?

Around the pool of the fountain, two elderly women and young boy stood rustling their hands within the water. Washing their smallclothes, he saw as he approached, and then they proceeded to hang them from the prongs of trident, water dripping steadily. Another man stood selling apples, Jon thought to buy one, before he remembered. Your name? What is your name? He didn’t know yet, best stay away from those he need not get involved with.

Jon turned on his heels, leading Ranger by the straps and made for another gate. Through the bare arch he could see the water, the sea. On and on and on and on it went, like the rolling hills he had passed. Waves shimmering and shaking and shining, I will pass those waves, and go on and on and on.

As he neared, a short man, thick of waist came stepping forward, arm upraised. Clad in boiled and leather and green woolens, a sword hung from his belt. A guard.

Jon flexed open his hand and closed it.

“You there, yes, listen.” His voice was thick and grungy. “Horses, no.” He wagged his finger back and forth. “We don’t let no horses in the docks, our Lord himself decrees.”

Jon held his chin high. “Where should I take him, then?”

He did not like the answer. “ _Not_ here,” he scoffed. “Boy, did you steal this horse?”

“No,” Jon replied. “He is mine. I need to go to the docks.”

“To take voyage? _Boy.”_ The guard laughed, Jon concealed his anger. “What do you plan to do with this horse then? If you should take a ship?”

He hadn’t thought much about that, all that mattered was reaching White Harbor, Ranger was his horse, his means of getting here, how could he leave him behind?

Jon brought back his hood, so the guard could get a good look about him. The guards believed their eyes, he would have to show he did not have the look of a thief. “I won’t be boarding any ship.” Not yet. “I need only speak to someone, is all.” The captains, I need to speak with them. Or a captain, that would be better.

The guard scratched his chin. “Fair,” he began. “We’ll take your horse then, hold him ‘till you get yourself back up through this Seal Gate. These around you would sooner rob you than watch after it, I tell you.”

You would sooner rob me, Jon thought, but kept his face straight.

“Here then, pass him over.” Jon held out the reins and the guard took them eagerly, he stroked Ranger’s long neck to bid him calm. “And the coin.”

Jon lowered his hand. “What?”

“Oh, aye,” the guard seemed shocked. “We don’t do this leisure for free, a few stag’s and you can be on your way.”

Jon was lost for patience, he fumbled within his pouch and brought out two silver stag’s, handing them over. Before he took his leave, he lifted the saddle sack over his shoulders and hid Ghost inside of his cloak. He could only imagine would what happen should they have found a direwolf strapped to the saddle.

The guard turned, pulling Ranger along, each step a clank of his sheathed sword, an echo of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles. Before Jon could pass the Seal Gate, he was called again. “Boy?”

Jon did not like being called Boy, though it was better than Bastard.

“What?” He turned.

“A name, I need one, yours.”

A name. A _name,_ what is my _name?_

 _Jon_ was all he could hear, _Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon,_ and _Snow, Snow, Snow,_ that was all he was, that was all he had ever been.

“Hullen.” Jon blurted.

His heart was pounding, Ghost was rustling from within the saddle sack, but that seemed enough for the guard. He turned and went his way, Jon did the same.

The inner harbor was as neatly set as the city itself, with many an anchored ship, he saw white sails and black, green and red and blue and yellow, cogs and galleys and galleass’, he seldom ever saw ships like these, or the sea.

Wooden planked piers sprouted their way between them, thin there and thicker here, and on them sailors and captains dashed. Barrels and boxes stacked the sides, each one soon being lifted by a sailor and onto a deck. The smell was stronger here, the smell of the sea. From the Seal Gate he could see Seal Rock, the huge stone passed the outer harbor, he had heard it mentioned once before in Winterfell, but never seen it.

Jon stood gaping like a maiden.

The inner harbor glistened green-gray waters, ships swaying steadily on the soft, wobbling waves. Further beyond, a huge stone wall struck its way up the waters, stretching almost as long as the inner harbor itself, and it was dashed with watchtowers every hundred yards.

I have to find proper voyage, he told himself over and over as he rushed down the steps, to Pentos, a good captain, a good ship.

Jon Snow did not know ships, only what he had learnt from books and guards talk. He could name a type, yes, or row and perhaps loose a sail, but he did not _know_ them.

He decided to start at the right of the harbor, the one huge galleass closest to him. With strapped sails of black and a deck that of a fine ivy colour, this seemed all that a _good_ ship should be. Sailors hurried upon that same deck, sweating and huffing, some without shirts, but each carried shipment at the bellows of the man who stood center.

A trident-forked beard, he had, dyed deep purple. Jon had almost gaped and almost laughed when he saw it, such things would not earn him voyage, though. One thing it did tell him however; this man must be from across the narrow sea.

“Captain,” Jon approached, his saddle sack still concealed under his cloak. The man turned, regarding him slowly. Jon noticed how blue his eyes were.

“Yes, lad?” His voice was without much of an accent, much to Jon’s surprise. He swallowed and flexed his hands.

“I’m looking for voyage, to Essos.” Jon began, carefully trying to watch the captain’s eyes as he spoke. “Pentos. I can pay, or work.”

The captain tugged at his beard, nodding his head. “Work you can, yes. Though I’m to anchor here for the next week, and when I leave, I set my sails to Tyrosh.”

Jon sighed, nodded his head and bid the man farewell. He would not linger. Setting sail a week from now would do him no good, he was certain he would be found by then, Lord Wyman would not hesitate to return him to Winterfell. This one is only the first, he told himself as he descended the pier, the first of many. He would not lose his hope now. The ships were lined down the harbor, one of them would take him, he was sure. He would try all of them.

The next was black of sail and deck alike, steady amongst the waters. Though unlike the last, this had a lack of sailors scurrying the splintered deck, and only a man dressed in fine velvet stood watching over the barrier. When Jon approached, he could smell the man’s sourness, a salty, fishy sort of scent. Was that good?

It didn’t seem to matter.

The ship was setting sail on that day, though not to Pentos, or even Essos, he was set on voyage to the capital. Jon Snow wanted nothing to do with the capital, he bid the man a safe voyage and took his leave.

Another one lost, but there are still many left.

With each ship, his little hope dwindled further. The captains or the first mate seldom refused his company aboard their ship, whether with coin or promise of work, but none were heading where he needed them to, or they weren’t setting voyage until another day, or they were had no space, or they would have to take him to their merchant prince in order to sign a contract, or those who he had more sharp tongues mocked his ability to work a ship, in truth, he didn’t doubt that.

The sun boiled down on him, until his leathers stuck to his chest and Ghost grew restless in his confinement. Jon managed to sneak an open run for the direwolf, behind a stack of crates and empty stalls, only so for a few minutes, before he picked him again and returned to the captains.

It was no use.

Afterwards, Jon came to set himself down on a wooden box, watching as the horizon of water came to meet the sun. Another day had gone, he was not leaving. Was that truly a good thing or bad?  He sat musing until a big bellied sailor came to lift the box, Jon stood and made his way to the Seal Gate.

A different guard stood duty now, one far younger than the last. He approached him slowly, the weight of his disappointment heavy on his mind and lifted a hand to catch his attention.

“What?” The guard stood, wiping a sandy brown lock from his eyes.

“My horse.” Jon said. “Hullen, be my name.”

He seemed to understand that well-enough. He turned and disappeared behind the barracks – well, Jon could assume it was a barracks from the position – and brought back around Ranger.

“Hullen?” He said as he passed over the reins. “Seems a northern name, aye. But it does not suit your face.”

Jon was in no mood for discussion.

“Take that up with my mother, friend, she named me.”

I believe so, perhaps she didn’t. He didn’t want to think on it.

Jon turned and began to walk back through the cobbled square centered around the merman, the clothes hanging from the prongs were dry now, though the women and boy were not there, perhaps they would return later to retrieve them. With the coming night, the streets cleared, without of children or chickens running underfoot, it seemed a darker shade. Except he spotted one girl who sat tearing at a smalltop with a dagger, she reminded him too much of Arya, he didn’t gaze for long.

What would he do now? What could he do. Jon passed a large whitewashed building, above its doors against a plank was written “The Old Mint”. One of the oaken doors was parted, and Jon could see it was mostly empty save for that of a few smallfolk sleeping amongst the ground. He needed to bed down, but not there, where he was prone to being so easily talked to amongst others.

He was half-tempted to mount Ranger and ride his way through the streets until he found an inn of use, but he did not want to attract such attention, and he could not gather the will to climb the saddle.

Jon came to a stop outside The Black Crone, a three storied inn with alleys running either side. On the left, a small beam was made with a tan hide roof, the ground beneath it was covered in hay. Jon assumed it was a cover for the horses, should it rain, they would stay dry, or dryer than without. Jon brought Ranger forward.

A young boy sat atop the beams, looking at Jon as he approached. He expected the boy would scuttle when he came close, but he did not, he only watched, dangling his legs loosely.

There was a funny thing about his hair, the boy had none. He was as bald as an egg, and his eyes were so brown he could see them shining even in the dark. He had never seen such a bald boy before, he looked… odd.

Jon tied the reins of Ranger to the beam and guided him under the leather cover, all the same the boy did not move. He assumed it would not rain this night, though he could not be entirely sure, he had never spent a night in White Harbor before.

“Do you work for the owner?” Jon asked once he stepped out of the cover, the boy nodded.

“Watch my horse for me, and tomorrow I’ll give you a few coins for your time.”

The corners of his pink lips tilted upwards, he had his loyalty, then.

He entered The Black Crone with the saddle sack over his shoulder, Ghost bundled within.

It was a large square common room, quiet save for the _huummm_ of the hearth, trestles lined the center and small circular tables scattered the sides. All were empty, most like those here had taken to their rooms for the night, but for one, a circular table was seized by an old man, even more grey and wrinkled than the one he had seen on his ride here.

He regarded Jon Snow curiously as he took his seat, faraway and in the shadows. The owner soon approached him.

“How are you, this night?” He had a gentle voice.

Jon thought before answering. “Hungry,” say nothing else. “And thirsty. Some wine, please.”

The man nodded and smiled. “Of course.”

It was not a long wait, he laid the grey saddle bag over his knee and scratched at Ghost from within, laughing down into the shining red eyes. He stopped when he caught the old man staring dead at him, eyes as black as his vest, then the owner returned with his food.

“Some’t nice ‘n warm for you, a room as well, you’ll be wanting?”

He needed somewhere to stay. “Yes,” Jon replied, the hot sweet-smelling smell made his mouth water. He had not eaten. Before he could eat though, Jon reached into his coin pouch pulled two silvers, such should suffice.

“Is this enough, for the night?” He hoped it was only the one night.

“Aye,” the owner took them, looking at markings. “It is, find an empty one upstairs, the doors can be barred.”

With that he took his leave, Jon could feel the old man’s gaze as he ate at his food. It made his stomach roll and set his thoughts to worrying, such was what eventually caused him to gather his plates and goblet full with red, strapped the sack over his shoulder and made his way up the narrow steps to his room.

He found an empty room after trying two other black wooden doors, finding them barred. It wasn’t as large as his Winterfell room had been, as was expected, but it was warm – lit by two braziers – and a large featherbed was gathered in the corner, calling for him.

Jon sat himself down with a sigh and, finally, shook Ghost free of his confinement. The direwolf leapt from the bed and jumped on his hind legs.

“I’m sorry for keeping you… locked away.” Jon told him, like he could simply understand. Eventually, Ghost’s growing fangs found Jon’s plate and he began chewing at the leg of meat, ripping and tearing it into supple strands. Jon was left with only the bread and butter. It was enough, though, and after the wine he hardly cared.

Jon stripped himself to his smallclothes and wrapped the grey sheets about him, he had a heavy mind this night. Staring at the flames of the brazier he couldn’t help but reflect on his failure. I should be on a ship now, falling asleep to the rocking of the waves. Not here.

It was not good for him to dwell on his failures, start anew the next day, someone had once told him, an old man, who exactly he could not seem to recall. Instead, his thoughts fell back to Winterfell. To the feast, to Benjen and Eddard, to the truth.

 

**ARYA**

Nymeria nuzzled her, drawing Arya’s eyes open.

It was not the first time that she had awoken at Nymeria’s prodding this particular dawn, and it would not be the first time she sighed and brought the sheets back over her head. For all she loved the direwolf, it was too early, she didn’t have to rise yet.

Septa Mordane would come to wake her, not late, but not early either, Arya figured – she was always one of the last of her family up, her and Jon, it made her feel special. Though it didn’t change her thoughts on that old stupid septa, with her stupid lessons. Today would be another day under her black cold eyes, whilst Robb and Bran and Joff and Tommen all practiced in the yards. She was older than Bran, and she was better at the sword.

Yet the only thing she would wield today would be the sewing needles.

Arya pulled the sheets back up to her chin, she didn’t know what Nymeria wanted, and she felt so tired. Though at first, she tried to ignore it, she could feel the prodding through of Nymeria’s nose through the sheets, the soft nipping of her fangs, and the only noises were the small muted howls that she let out when Arya didn’t budge. And something else… somebody shouting from outside.

Arya sighed, and rose.

After wiping her eyes, she said. “What’s wrong?” her voice sounded dry to her, so dry.

Nymeria leapt from the bed, her grey fur becoming a blur. She took her stop outside the door of Arya’s room, and began to howl slowly and scratch at it. That was odd, she had never acted this way before.

Arya felt a little frightened. Nym would never hurt her, she knew, but a direwolf was a direwolf. Her father would take her away should she ever hurt anyone, and with the royal court here… she could not imagine how she would be scolded should Nym ever hurt the Queen, or Joff. As much as Arya sometimes felt like setting the direwolf on that stupid prince, she never did, she never could, it would be like taking a blade to Nymeria herself, for surely it would end in the blood of them both.

She couldn’t think about that now, though. Something was wrong.

Arya was already clad in her grey woolen smallclothes, and so after donning her boots she walked to the door. “What’s wrong?” She asked again, stroking her hand through the grey fur.

Nymeria wouldn’t answer, she would only howl and scratch. Arya you would have to find out herself.

She opened the door slowly, fear beginning to light up in her stomach. This is your home, your castle, your wolf, _you_ are a wolf. She felt calmer then, her heart steadying in her chest. As soon as the opening was wide enough, Nymeria bounded through in a scurry and Arya leaped to follow her, her fear forgotten.

Through narrow halls and past dimly lit scones they ran, breathless. For a half a heartbeat Arya came to forget why they were running in the first place, but she didn’t want to stop. If Septa Mordane or her mother should check her chambers and find her missing, or find her running the halls freely with her direwolf, she would be scolded for both. Arya continued to chase after Nymeria.

Nym came to a stop outside a dark iron door, and when she came to Arya realized it was Jon rooms that they had ran to.

“In here?” Arya knelt to scratch Nym’s ears again. She only let out a long howl in response. It was most like Ghost she called to, they seemed to be settled with each other more so than the others where.

Jon wouldn’t mind her entering without a knock, he never did. But he might still be angry about the feast, she hesitated, last night she had been witness to her father chasing after him. All the same, Arya pushed open the door…

…and found the room was empty.

Empty and dark and silent. The bedding was messed, tangled and curled upon itself, he had slept there, but he was not there now. The fire was a black looming pit, dark and dry. The fear pricked her again.

“My lady, shouldn’t you be in your room?” She knew Fat Tom’s voice.

She turned. “Where’s Jon?”

Fat Tom simply shrugged. “Well, your father is out on a hunt with the King. Robb and Greyjoy went with him, but I know Jon Snow didn’t.”

Perhaps it was later than what she thought.

“Where is he then?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

 “Where would he go?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“Stop calling me that!” Arya bellowed, her hands clenched into fist.

“Yes, my- Arya.”

She sighed and stormed past him, angry. Nymeria slowly followed behind her, careful not to lose sight of her. Sometimes the so many halls and doors and exits would leave the direwolves circling, chasing their tales to find an answer.

Arya returned to her chambers, wrapped herself in a fur cloak and left the room empty again. She passed the halls once more, and this time she encountered no Fat Tom or any other guard, for that she was lucky. Arya hoped that Jon found her though, she didn’t want to leave him alone after what had happened at the feast.

Outside, she raced across the courtyard, careful not to be spotted. People would call her Arya Underfoot, now she intended to be called Arya Out-of-Sight.

She arrived at the Hunter’s Gate, thankful that no one had stopped her. Now, she only need ask the guards there who had left.

“My lady.” One of the guards greeted, she couldn’t recall his name.

“Did you see the King go?” Arya asked, Nymeria stopping at her heels.

“I did, my lady.”

“Was Jon with them?” She was not sure whether Tommard was right in what he said, perhaps he did go with them.

“The bastard?” He blurted, Arya frowned. “No, my lady.”

Where was he then?

“Looking for him?”

Arya shook her head, then stopped and said “Yes.” She sighed.

“Looked everywhere, my lady?”

In truth, she had not. But it was better if they thought she had. “Yes.”

“Well, he isn’t on that hunt, this I know, my lady.”

Arya gazed at Nym, chewing her lip, and had a thought. “Check for his horse then.”

The guard shot her a confused look. “His horse?”

“Yes, the black one. Hullen will tell you, he knows which one it is.”

He sighed. “He’s been snoring all morning. Eh, well, if the lady commands it.”

She supposed she could put up with that for once, it was better than Arya Horseface. “She does.”

When the guard left, sighing again, Arya looked at Nym and smiled, feeling a flush of accomplishment. She could tell Jon when she found him how far she had gone just to seek him out, and he would muss her hair and call her ‘little sister’. It was still not fair though, he wasn’t allowed to go on the hunts, he was a better hunter than Theon, and half Stark at that. And yet Joff could go hunting, what would he ever catch on a hunt?

Arya had a better chance than him. She knew she was lucky to have avoided the eyes of the Septa so far, she was without her proper clothes, and if she was found she would be forced to her chambers before the guard could return.

Luckily, he returned then, but he was not the same.

She could not hear from all the way away from them, but anyone could see the look of worry and confusion so clear on his face, what was so hard to ask for a horse? Fear pricked at her thoughts like a dagger. Before she could call him, to ask what had happened, he whispered to the others and left once again. Arya was left to gape uselessly, Nymeria whined.

Another guard stepped forward, she knew he feigned his smile. “Come, my lady. You need not worry, I’ll tell Jon you’re looking for him.”

Arya began to follow. “You found him?”

“Soon.”

When she reached the door, she caught sight of the guard leaving through the Hunter’s Gate atop a horse. And in the distance a wolf howled.

Fear pricked at her thoughts like a dagger.

Slowly, slowly cutting deeper.

 

**JON**

He knew that he couldn’t go another night here, he needed to find the right ship.

Jon laid on his back, staring up at the rotting wooden beams on the ceiling of his room at The Black Crone. He had been doing just that for an hour or so, thinking whilst Ghost nestled in his arms. Thinking wouldn’t carry him down to the harbor though, nor would it place him on a ship and sail him swiftly to Pentos, he would do that himself, as he always had.

Soon.

However, the matter still stood with Ranger. Thinking back on the guards at the Seal Gate reminded him that he could not take the horse on a ship, he could not take him across the narrow sea. But how could he leave him? Ranger had ridden as he slept, carried him to White Harbor in the dead of the night. Ranger had lapped the rolling hills and trotted hours without stop, perhaps the horse was the only the reason Jon was not caught.

And he would have to leave him.

Jon finally managed to convince himself of an honorable depart, he would take Ranger outside the city walls and let him free, let him run the hills and through the trees, perhaps all the way back to Winterfell. There Hullen could find him a new rider, perhaps Arya, she was always steady in a saddle, it would be his gift to her to keep from the sewing needles.

He had decided upon that, until as he gathered his clothes, he checked upon his coin pouch.

Jon emptied the leather bag and set the coins along the bed sheet, spreading them with his fingers. He counted six, then seven – one had sat upon the other – and then seven again. Seven silver stags would get him on a ship, depending the kind, and perhaps bribe a captain to set his sails eastwards, but that would be all. He would have nothing left.

Ranger, his mount would be worth a fortune, for it was a sturdy, strong horse, bred in a castle.

Though the thought shamed him, he soon decided that he had little choice. Without the right coin, he could not get anywhere, and a horse could only reach certain places. He avoided Ghost’s demanding gaze, eyes shot alight with red, the least he could do now was sell him to the right person, someone who would look after him as he had done.

Once Jon had donned his clothes, strapped his cloak about his shoulders and gathered Ghost back up in the saddle sack, filled with the dirks and dagger and plate that he had brought, Jon made his way back down into the common room.

It was far fuller than to what it had been last night, each of the trestles were occupied by travelling men, breaking their fasts and washing it all down with wine or water or ale.  But there was still many an empty chair and table, he would not break his own fast here this morn, though. He could not spare the coin.

The owner regarded him, offering a quick smile. Jon returned it, in the one hand he held the sack over his shoulder. Perhaps…

“Say, lad. Was the room to your liking?” He asked.

Jon nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Ah, good, that’s good, then.”

Jon hesitated before speaking, it seemed liked a witless question to ask, but he asked it anyway. “Are you, perchance, interested in buying a horse?”

The owner raised an eyebrow. “A horse? Me, no, lad. I was whelped in this city; I don’t plan to be leaving any time soon.”

That was clear enough, as if it seemed too harsh a reply, the owner grasped him by the shoulder and smiled before he turned back and left the common room. He had refused him, like others had before. Then, from behind someone spoke.

“A horse? How much, pray?”

Jon turned and saw a man sat behind a table, with a platter below his chin left with only white crumbs and an empty goblet settled beside it. His hair was a mop of greasy black, and as Jon approached he could smell him before he could see the blue that his eyes were.

“Fifteen silvers.” Jon told him, the man wore mostly leathers, rough and stained, used.

“It must be a good horse, is it here?”

“It is, I assure you. And yes, outside.”

He stood from his chair, swept back his hair with one hand and said. “No time to waste then. Show me.”

Jon led him outside The Black Crone, the morning air smelt like the bakery that was across the cobbled street, and fish too.  As it had been when Jon arrived, the streets were full to flooding, men and women and children and chickens. Jon led them around to the alley beside the inn, to where Ranger rested under the wooden beams and hide cover.

He had promised the bald boy coin for his efforts, but as Jon approached, he hoped that the boy was gone – he could not spare any other coins.

He was, much to Jon’s luck, and Ranger was still tied to the beam. Awake and tapping his hooves, his lifted his neck as he saw Jon approach.

“Here.” Jon swept a hand down his mane. “Ranger, I call him.”

The man scratched at his unkempt beard as he inspected the horse before him, each heartbeat, each shift of the buyer’s blue eyes as he regarded Ranger for what he was, built the shame growing within him. I’m sorry, he thought as if the horse could hear, I will not forget you.

Finally, the man spoke. “Aye, ‘tis a fine steed.” He pulled out a small pouch and picked the coins into his other hand. “Here.” He handed them over for Jon to count.

Once he finished, Jon nodded. And just like that, Ranger was no longer his. “If I may, what will you be using him for? He’s got good strength, don’t put it to waste.”

“I won’t. I’m to be going south, need a good mount to be on my way as quick I can.”

That was good, then. Ranger did not deserve to left to the shadows.

The horse that had once been his shied away from his new owners’ grip, Jon approached, resting a calm hand upon his black soft mane, he had kept him well groomed, Hullen never tended to the horse himself. “He’ll take a while to get used to you, but soon enough, he’ll be fine.” Jon told the new owner.

“As you say.”

Jon gave the horse that-was-not-his one last long look, remembering the rolling hills that went on and on and on, the little stream where he had near been caught, the direwolves past the bridge, the man of the Night’s Watch that they had seen executed. The thoughts made him smile, and he then turned away before that smile could take to a frown. Looking back would only fill him with regret again, I will not forget you. He followed the cobbled streets, past sweating men in shoes and others on bare feet, past the Old Mint with its open doors, past the tall merman with its beard of green, past the Seal Gate and the guards. He did not want to be here any longer.

Half the ships that had been where no longer docked, and their places were now filled anew.

New ships and different captains, more chances. A new flock of sails. He rushed down the steps and came to a stop at the bottom of the jetty, where most of the cargo was piled. Thinking of an order to this folly, should he try a different order this time? It had seemed like such a simple task, yet was proving to be so difficult.

Again, he chose to visit the first ship to his right, as it was the closest.

The first two were much to his disappointment once again, neither were setting their sails across the narrow sea.

Jon made his own way to the next, filled with hope, was it false hope? He could not tell; he had forgotten what it was a long time ago. It only kept him going, and that was enough.

Though this time, by chance, a captain seemed to find him.

He wore a purple vest and leather tanned breeches, his boots laced to the knees. He had a long black beard, oiled thinly and spoke with one of the heavy accents of the east.

“You, friend.” He followed Jon across the wooden jetty. “This one saw you here yesterday, looking for a ship, word is, no?”

That brought a stop to his steps, Jon turned to the man and stared him fully in the face. He had a great mole that sat beneath his right eye, the rest of his skin was a lighter brown, and oiled.

“Ah, yes, this one is right.” He patted his stomach. “Allow me, I have the honour of being Belario Dirroran, of Myr. First mate to Thoran Brenyris, captain of the _Wind’s Wave._ ”

Jon’s lips parted as the man bowed deeply. “ _Wind’s Wave?”_

He brought his head up again. “Yes, friend. She’s the fastest in this harbor, this one knows she will take you where you seek.”

Where I seek? How could he know? Jon held his chin high, he was only fourteen, one the verge of his fifteenth nameday, though, and bastards grew up quicker than others. He could seem like such a youth to this Belario. “Show me this ship.”

Belario nodded and gestured him across the jetty, Jon followed, watching closely from behind. If this was truly the chance for him to finally board a ship, go where he seeks, he would not chance to turn away from it.

They stopped beside a trading galley, sails of black and crimson, a deck like the night. It was a ship fine to look upon, but here at the harbor he could not guess whether it was the fastest.

It did not smell like the sea, instead, it smelt like scents from faraway lands, drifting with the saltiness that was the smell of White Harbor. Belario urged him across the wooden plank and onwards onto the deck, he dropped his feet onto it with a thud.

The _Wind’s Wave_ was not an empty deck, stark like some others previous, nor was it full with heaving sailors dappled with sweat from the sun blazing down upon them, and no man stood in the center bellowing commands in a throaty harsh voice.

Casks of wine lined the sides, emblazoned with different sigils, Jon spotted a clusters of grapes burned into the sides of many, from the Arbor, he knew, the Redwyne sigil. Men in white and red and yellow and green tended to chests of saffron and lace, from places Jon had never had the wonder to see, he saw amber and dragonglass, most like from Asshai.  He had heard of the remote place by the shadow. Others stood weighing bags of coin, chains and rings. Spotted amongst the back where bales of sourleaf, pallets of striped hides were being carried down through an opening plank into the belly of the ship. Jars of pepper and curry, a mask like milk glass, casks of ink in blue and red and black, a box of rare amethysts, rainbow feathered cloaks from the Summer Sea…. why would such a ship dock here? What could the north give when you already had all of this?

Belario took him by the shoulder. “You see, this fine ship. We will take you like the others did not.”

Jon sniffed the scents once more and said. “Where you watching me?”

Belario laughed. “You were not hard to see, friend. On the sea, captains talk and trade, sailors spread their gossip. Did you think we stayed clutched to the confines of our bunks, only check the deck come the day?”

People talking about him, that was not good. But if they were all sailors and captains, they wouldn’t stay long. Jon Snow shrugged. “No.”

“Good,” he nodded his head. “This one must speak for you, stay here. I will return, friend.”

Belario disappeared into a door by the quarterdeck, others continued to move around him. He felt like a stranger, as many of these men sported many different shades of robe and tunic, his was simple, dark and uninviting. Jon was glad that nobody approached him, though.

The first mate returned with another man, like the sails of this ship, he was clad in black and crimson. He wore breeches of thin silk, one leg red and one black, as was his tunic, one sleeve black and one red. The cloak that fell to his feet was black and streaked with crimson patches. Though his hair and beard was black, no hint of red at all.

Jon assumed it was Thoran Brenyris, the captain.

“This one,” Belario told him, the man regarded Jon Snow and smirked.

If they talked then, he couldn’t hear them. Ghost began to wrestle within the saddle sack, thrashing his paws against the fabric. Jon tried to ignore the rustling beneath his cloak, then clench it still, but it did not work. Eyes began to linger on him, he could feel the heat rising in his face and the worry in his heart.

Ghost leapt from the sack, fangs bared, snarling. Gasps arose from around him, suddenly, Jon could not smell the scents of faraway lands anymore, smells of saffron and wine and ink. He could smell fear, taste it in his mouth, hear it all around him.

The man in black and crimson unsheathed a dagger, a flare of light beaming from the polished steel.

“No!” Jon yelled, sprawling the deck to catch Ghost in his grip. He could see the steel flashing closer, he could see his own hands before him, fisting the white fur.

The dagger whistled and fell through the air, when it met the planks his heart seemed to stop. Only...

… Ghost was wrapped in his arms, unmoving, unshaking, but breathing softly. He had kept him from the dagger’s point. Jon sighed with relief, and for a moment he forgot about everyone else.

Then Belario spoke. “What is that?”

His voice was oddly calm, those around him watched closely, waiting. They wouldn’t know what a direwolf was, he hoped, and Ghost could certainly not pass for a dog. “It doesn’t matter,” Jon got back to his feet. “He’s no harm, not with me.”

He expected to be lead off the ship, another failure, Jon waited for the words.

The captain smirked, his lips full and red, some of his teeth hinted gold and silver. He then nodded to Belario and took his leave back through the doors of the quarterdeck once again, his black and crimson cloak swirling behind him. Whatever that meant, Jon did not know. But it seemed to make Belario smile.

“Come,” Belario beckoned him forward, that was not what he had expected. Yet Jon followed, Ghost in his arms, the eyes of those around him shooting confused glances. He followed him below the deck, pass hampers and barrels and sailors, all the way to the far side of the ship.

“This is where you stay now.” Belario said in his thick accent, opening a small wooden door and revealing a bed inside. He got a room?

Jon shook his head. “Do you even know where I want to go?”

Belario furrowed his brow. “Tell me.”

Jon hesitated, wrongly. He was here now, in the ship, under their deck, if they would not sail him to where he wanted, he would leave. _This one knows she will take you where you seek,_ that was what Belario had said.

“Pentos.” Jon admitted, almost a whisper.

Belario was quiet, then he smiled, and made his way to leave. That left Jon to watch without words, until the first mate quickly returned.

“Oh,” Belario turned his thick body and held out his hand. “You wake early in the mornings, and carry the crates under deck, you do the work the captain asks of you.”

He had expected that, working could be his form of payment, though Belario held his hand out still.

“What?” Jon nodded at his hand, his brow upraised.

“This one would have coin, think of me when you bed down on your featherbed at night, in your own chamber, _with_ your own window.”

Jon supposed that was fair. He reached into his pouch with one arm, Ghost gathered in the other. He lifted out two silvers and dropped them in the man’s hand, then he closed the door.

It was a small cabin, with an even smaller featherbed against the wall, draped with white sheets. A window was carved above the headboard, it was covered by a plank for the moment, but Jon saw it could be pulled back and forth. Why had they given him all this? It made him wary, but what other chance did he have? If he left and tried the other ships, he couldn’t know whether the next would accept him eagerly, or if all of them would refuse him.

He set Ghost down at the foot of the bed and sat down at his side, running his hand over his furry ears like he would muss Arya’s hair, and call her ‘little sister’. He wished she was here now, he could talk to her, he wished Robb was here… you left them, you are leaving… it is the right thing to do.

Jon pulled back the window panel and let a thin finger of light shine across his face, he did not know when they would set sail. He could check after he had set out the other contents of his saddle bag, he took out the dirks that he had gathered from Winterfell’s armory, ones that he often used; though he was leaving, he would not steal from them. He would a Lannister, though, there was a dagger too, with a dragonbone hilt and a blade of rippling steel, perhaps even Valyrian. He had found that beside Joffrey’s saddle, strapped with crimson leather. He had taken it right away.

The steel rippled in the light of the sun, and he was sure it was Valyrian steel, though still only a dagger. Jon unbuckled his scabbard from his belt and laid it beside the rest, the new grip of the longsword was supple fresh leather, black and polished.

When he took back to the deck, he wore a thin black cloak that fell to his knees, with the hood gathered behind his head. Jon had donned a grey woolen tunic, black leather breeches and his mud-stained boots. He had left his longsword in his room, carrying only the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt.

White Harbor was but a speck in the distance, the north a line brimming the horizon. He came to a stop at the barriers, the waves splashing the deck of the _Wind’s Wave._

That thin black line in the distance had been his home, it was Ned and Robb and Bran and Rickon and Sansa, and even Catelyn too. It was Winterfell’s grey walls and Ser Rodrik Cassel’s whiskers, it was the godswood and the heart tree, the still pond and the glass gardens. It was Arya’s smile.

You were wrong to love them as you did, a voice inside him said. You were wrong to leave them, insisted another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chuck me a comment below, always appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	3. Truths and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wolf howled, spreading through the woods.... another, passing the titan.

**EDDARD**

Robert Baratheon grunted as he unlaced the straps to his leather breeches, soon shooting a stream of piss into the green shrubs and frozen blades of grass. It was an early morning - the sky pale and the morning dew yet be gone with -perhaps too early to hunt. But His Grace Robert never thought it too early to hunt.

Eddard sat atop his grulla courser, his thick wolf-pelt cloak wrapped around him. Tyrion Lannister sighed and groaned and shifted at his side, mounted on his own piebald gelding with his queer saddle. What good was that in a hunt? Ned thought, but truly this was no hunt at all. Benjen Stark paced along on his own black garron, clad in black wool with a stark coldness about his face. Does he feel as tormented as I? It had not been easy to wake, to dress and face his wife, his king, his sons and his daughters… he could only think back to Jon’s face, grey eyes like his own glooming and a bed of blood and roses.

He shook his head at his worries, such would do him no good. Words were like arrows, he had found, once loosed they could not be called back. Jon would never forget what he had told him, it would not change his past. But now I must help him, Ned told himself, once whilst he was in his bed and now atop his horse, I have kept it from him for so long. Eddard had decided that he could not send him to the Wall… not now. Perhaps Jon would desert, desert for the thoughts that had haunted Eddard for fourteen years past. If so Ned would be expected to bring him a deserter’s end. He could never do that, by the Old Gods he never would, as he laid in his bed the night before, he wondered whether he had lifted a great burden from the Jon's shoulders, or set him on a course for doom. And as he slept, he dreamt the dream of blood and roses.

Jory and Ser Rodrik Cassel were beside each other, mounted between two great soldier pines that loomed like black-green towers. And upwards from the ridge, Robb and Theon jested, their laughs scare to Robert’s own bellow. Ned could not share in laughs this morn, even if he wanted to. He had thought to tell them to cease their jesting, it was not proper in the presence of the king, but he had not done that either.

They were all still upon a huge ridge of mud, staring down a steep bank of icy grass to see the levelling ground below them. The Wolfswood was old and dark, clambering down such a hill on horseback was risking the breaking of a leg. So as it was, they had been talking of changing course nigh on an hour.

Eddard was scratching his beard when Tyrion Lannister approached. “I grow weary,” the imp began. “are we going to move or not?”

It was a fair question, Eddard rubbed his brow. “Soon, the king shall decide.”

Tyrion did not seem resolved with his answer. “Direwolves,” he looked about his small shoulders. “Any more in these woods? They would make easy work of me.”

Was he mocking him? “There are no direwolves here but mine own. You _need_ not worry.” His voice was stern and certain, direwolves had not been sighted south of the Wall for near two hundred years. Though Eddard’s unspoken thoughts were not alike. Days ago, there had been none, but now there were six of them. Who was to say they were not more?

They had left Robb’s own Grey Wind at Winterfell, for he was too small to come out in such hunts. Too easily lost sight of.

Ned was about to turn his way to Robert when Ser Rodrik Cassel approached, his white whiskers scattered over red cheeks. “My lord,” he began. “If you have a moment, I would wish to speak with you.”

Ser Rodrik’s sable steed shuddered, it was cold. It was the same cold in the air from when they had readied their horses this morning, with the stableman Walder and men of the king’s party, those who had been less fortunate to help about the stables in their stay. Hullen himself – the master of horse - was wrapped in his featherbed, snoring away his stupor. Ned did not think to wake him, it had been a late feast the night before, he could not blame him for resting, he would've preferred to do so himself.

Eddard followed Ser Rodrik aside, away from the banks edge and further back into the trees. The shadows shot darkness on his features, and Ned felt a sudden stab of worry. “It’s the boys, my lord. The prince… there’s some quarrels between them.”

“How so?” Ned furrowed his brow.

“You mustn't worry yourself, my lord, truly.” Ned nodded at that, to appease him. Ser Rodrik would never intend to worry him, and the old knight would never admit that he was having trouble on the yards, too large was his pride. “Only I ask that you speak with Robb, it’s Prince Joffrey, my lord. He’s… I fear that one of them would get hurt should it come to steel.”

Ned cocked his head forward. “Steel?”

“Aye, my lord.” He looked back the through the trees, black old ems and soldier pines. “I wouldn’t allow it, but Robb seems eager. If they were to…”

It was expected, he supposed. They were boys nearing manhood, competition was doubtless.  “I will speak to Robb, ser. You were right to tell me.”

Ser Rodrik Cassel smiled, and they returned to the bank.

Robert had laced his breaches, mounted his horse and found his bellowing laugh again. Ned approached him.

“Have you decided a course, Your Grace?”

“Ah, Ned, put an end to the courtesies. I hear enough of them in King’s Landing.” He chuckled and reached for his wineskin, a fine thing for a wineskin, hanging from his saddle. “We follow back our track, time we returned to Winterfell.”

For the first time that morning, Ned smiled a proper smile.

Then he frowned.

Even on as they began their way back, Robert held both a spear and the reins, whilst he kept his other hand on the hilt of the longsword sheathed at his belt; as if some boar or wolf was suddenly going to jump for him, if so he was ready. And still he was not without his dagger, the one that Jon Arryn had given him when they were both boys, it made him smile to see it so, and upset all the same.

Robert was not without his tales. Tales of the Red Keep, of his full nights and empty days, his time in the kingswood, hunting any and each track that he could find. It was one of those tales now.

“It was a big bastard of a thing.” Robert said. “I knew that from the tracks, and Barristan would tell you.”

They passed under old elm branches, shot with shadows, Robb and Theon still talked among themselves, as did Jory and Rodrik, save for his own brother and the imp, they brought the Wolfswood to life with their voices.

“Three days, Ned. Three days, it took.” Robert gazed, wide-eyed. “Sleeping in the bloody pavilions, spear and dagger in hand, mud beneath my feet. I was like my younger self.”

As much as Ned felt he wanted to share in his friend’s hunts, to be with him once again, side by side and trusting in their own strength; he found that hunting did him no appeal. I have grown old, he reflected as Robert spoke, I am settled with my wife and children – but my king does all he can to spare him of that life.

“When I found the thing, it came at me.” He chuckled. “So I stuck it with my spear! Leapt its horns and got the bastard right in the eye.” This time, Robert bellowed his laugh. “The court enjoyed roasted boar that night.”

Ned laughed too, yet he assumed that boar did not come without the measure of wine. Wine was no object to that of kings, whether a sweet red or firewine or pepperwine, Andalish sours or smokeberry browns, it made no difference.

“When was this, Robert?” Eddard asked.

Robert had a puzzled look about his face, then shrugged. “I do not recall, Ned.”

Robert again reached for his own wineskin. A fine thing, Eddard thought again, for a wineskin - dark supple leather with inlaid gold. The king drank and swallowed before he began another tale, this one another hunt. Jory and Ser Rodrik soon trotted beside them, listening closely. Such was the reason Eddard found himself not listening anymore, but thinking about Jon again.

He had done so all morning, it was best if he did not grow worrisome, but he could not seem to stop it.

When I return to Winterfell, he thought as he rode forward, I will tell Jon all the rest. Ned had told him most, but not all, he would take him down to the crypts on his return. Let him see his mother, let him see Lyanna, tell him all he knew about his sister, and his father, the late Prince of Dragonstone… and Howland Reed and the knight… of the Spider.  I will tell him everything. I will tell him who he is.

Ned turned back to Robert, who was laughing still. What would you do, old friend? He had kept his secret for fourteen years, even from his own wife and children, from Jon himself. What wrath would Robert summon? Would he call him a _dragonspawn,_ and have him killed before the dusk, even if he had loved Lyanna, even if he held Ned dear? What could stop the king and his fury if he found a boy of Targaryen blood sleeping within the same walls?

Eddard would not send Jon to the Wall, as Benjen had told him what he had asked, they both agreed – much to the anger of his wife. What could he say to her? She was right in her protests, but he could not tell her the truth… would he soon have to send him away? Lyanna’s boy, the one thing left of her in this world. It would feel like betrayal.

As if he sensed his father’s mood, Robb reined up beside him. He had donned a fresh grey cloak and new riding leathers, clean and without sweat and marks. Ned had long before permitted him to carry a sword on his belt, in hunts especially. The scabbard was of virgin leather and inlaid with silver accents, it rattled as he rode.  

Ned smiled and said. “Ser Rodrik has informed me of a… _matter,_ concerning you and the prince.”

Robb shot him a queer look. “Joff?”

“The prince, yes.” Ned faced forward, his voice like stone. “I need not tell you what happened, but make sure it does not happen again. He is staying in our halls; we will treat them as is fitting to the royal family.”

“But-”

“Robb, you listen to Ser Rodrik, you always have. He put a sword in your hand as much as I did, respect him.”

Robb looked pained, shamed. Regret filled Ned to see so, but this was for the good of them both.

“Yes, _father.”_

“Practice with tourney blades, but do not ask for bare steel.” Eddard was going to continue before Robb dug his heels and rode to Theon Greyjoy once more, though they did not laugh this time. 

He would not risk a conflict between their families, not with that prince, too. Joffrey was clear to all those who cared to look, he would not concern himself with the matters of the Stark’s, of the children, he saw himself a higher vintage. And Queen Cersei would start wars for him, that much he was certain of.

I should tell Jon to keep our words privy, Ned knew he already would, but should Robb find out? Arya? It made no difference to them, they were brother and sister, as he had prayed for them to be all those years ago. As much as Ned knew they would most like forgive it within a day, he preferred for them not to know.

“Promise me, Ned…” she had said, the air smelt like blood. “Take him, raise him as I would… Promise me...” He had looked down at Rhaegar’s son that day, as Howland Reed had taken Lya’s hand from his. He was without the violet eyes or streaming silver hair, he had Stark in his blood, black of hair and grey of eye. 

Onwards they rode, the sky patched with green canopies becoming lighter and lighter. All the while Robert spoke between his wineskin, tale after tale. It made good for a long ride, they had gone further inwards than what he had expected. The King spoke of a feast and then a hunt, a tourney and hunt, a feast and a wench, all the way until they came to another stop before the tree line. Robert had need to relieve himself.

Eddard watched as the King dismounted, found himself a fair bush to rinse and went about his business. He then trotted over to Benjen, finding him nearer the end of the Wolfswood.

“Brother.” Ned began, his breath misting before him.

Benjen was silent, sullen, yet untouched by the cold. He was a man of the Night’s Watch; coldness was another one of his brothers.

“Ned.” He gripped his reins tightly through his fine black moleskin gloves. “This hunt has taken twice the time for the king’s pissing.”

It was true. “He is the king.”

“Aye, that he is.”

It was silent for a time. Only the sound of the trees, the wind and the promises…

“The deserter, the one that I put to death… did you know him?”

“Gared, was his name.” Benjen sighed. “He was a true ranger.”

Eddard had not seen a true ranger that day. He had seen a soul of fear. “He spoke madness... he said the Others had killed his sworn brothers.”

“Two more were with him, yes, and they have not returned.”

“Do you think it is the wildlings?”

Benjen scratched his chin. “Direwolves south of the Wall… the nights grew colder and colder. You have not seen what I have, brother.”

What had he seen?

“He was the fourth this year,” Ned said. “How does the watch fair?”

“The King-beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, he is called. Word is that he gathers the wildlings, to form an army. Greenboys piss themselves when they hear of that… and then they desert.”  

“Wildling kings have long gathered armies and made south, only to lose. Tell me, is this Mance Rayder truly a threat?”

As had the Starks of old, raised their banners to repel a King and King’s-beyond-the-Wall, such had Stark and Umber slain Raymun Redbeard in battle, in the time of his grandfather’s father, it may need to come to that again. But that battle was not without its losses, on both sides.

“Mayhaps, if he does gather an army; though the Wall was built to stop armies. He will not pass.” Despite Benjen’s words, his voice seemed uncertain. “Have you spoken to Jon?” He asked.

Ned shook his head. “Not as yet, but when we retur-”

In the distance, the sound of a horse’s hooves rattled through the trees, like a low grumbling. Ned turned his head onwards, he could see Winterfell now the shadowy line of trees, grey and misty in the distance.

“Riders?” Benjen said, turning his head.

Then Ser Rodrik and Jory were beside him, hands on their hilts. Tyrion shifted on his saddle, unsure to which direction he should face.

“My lord.” Jory Cassel bared his steel, it glistened in the morning light.

Ned was not afraid. “Put away your steel,” he commanded. “This is one of our own.”

Robert laced his breeches, the third time this morning, and came stomping over to them, hot-blooded. His large face was flushed, he gasped breaths through his beard of nestled barbs. “Who is it, Ned?” He called.

Eddard did not speak; somehow he knew. The gate of trees beyond them, with their green falling canopies left him unable to see past. And so the eight men sat, one huffing, one breathing slow breaths, others scowling, all waiting for what would come through the trees. All but Eddard.

It was a single rider.

“M’lord!” he called, his voice raspy. “M’lord!”

The guard reined his palfrey before Eddard, the mount whickered and stamped its hooves, causing Ned’s own to shift backwards.

The rider though, the face he knew, but he could not summon a name.

“M’lord,” he said again, trying to calm himself. “You’re here, I searched for you but… I thought you had returned to Winterfell. And so I did… then I came back out again. ”  

He was gasping, red-faced and his green eyes scanned the rest with worry.

Something is wrong.

Eddard looked over his shoulders, he was suddenly so cold, so cold it burned right through him. It hurt even to move.

Robert caught his eyes, his face like stone. Then he nodded.

“Come.” Ned gestured his arm to the tree line and began a swift trot, no others made to follow, except the guard, albeit hesitantly. Ned did not want to have all the rest hear any wrongs that may have happened in his home, he would hear them first. What if Jon had… Eddard could not allow himself be afraid, not now, not for sake of him. He had been afraid for fourteen years, and yesterday, in the dimness of Jon’s chambers, he had been truly brave.

The light hit Eddard’s face as he left the sprawling shadows of the Wolfswood, those cast down by the needles of the iron oaks and old elms and all the other sort. Winterfell sat in the distance, grey and still. He no longer felt cold.

Ned could see that the guard was reluctant to share any happenings, despite his haste to reach him.

“ _My lord.”_ His green gaze found Ned’s own, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Jon Snow… he has left Winterfell.”

Eddard’s body fell numb. It was not from the cold.

“And Bran…”

 

**JON**

The _Wind’s Wave_ always rocked softly in the night, and so Jon came to think it was that which made him so easily fall asleep. To forget his guilt.

He laid upon his own white sheet featherbed, in his very own bunk with his very own brazier. The only things here that are truly mine, he thought, is the coin in my pouch, the dagger by my side and the direwolf at my feet.  All the rest belonged to the _Wind’s Wave,_ to Thoran Brenyris. Though now it was Jon’s own hands that he sat gazing at, tracing each finger, each and every crack that had borne themselves into his skin.

My hands were summer green when I arrived, he thought as he felt one with the other, like hardened leather they had become, like stone. After a near moon of doing captain Thoran’s work, under the watchful eye of Belario with his greasy beard, the blisters and the splinters had run their course once, twice and thrice. They are as hard as winter now.

It was a good thing, Jon knew. Even if they were only hands, he would need all the strength he had for the Free Cities. For Pentos, Jon did not truly know what to expect. If it involved carrying crates, though, for that he would be ready.  

Aboard the Wind’s Wave, his work was simple, once he had come to learn the ways of it. Below the deck, beyond the wooden door of his dimly lit bunk; stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and chests and baskets lined the shadowy sides of the storage quarters. They were ones of ash wood, birch or oak or clear pine, and plenty of each displayed a different sigil. Whether chest or crate or basket, each alike was striped with a single stroke of paint, either blue, red, or green. Meaning for trade or for sale or empty. Jon would be given a colour on the dawn of each day, and so he would take those boxes, crates or chests and carry them to the deck for sorting. It was the robed men, as the crew called them, who did the sorting.

Belario had been clear, each day the storage quarters would be filled anew, fresh crates smelling the scent of newly dashed paint. And through the day or the night, Jon would have to take those of his colour to the deck. So as long as on the morn their spaces were empty to be stacked once more.  

Jon preferred the nights. He did not often feel like hauling wooden crates for hours when he had just awoken, in a deck full with the crew and sailors, sweating under the beating sun.  The nights were calmer, cooler and brought a tiredness upon him, one that he was grateful for. Many a night he found himself drifting off as soon as his head hit the pillow, with Ghost gathered at his side.

And in the days, he had other duties.

It was Belario himself who had given him the blunted blades to practice with, when he had heard Jon talking of swords and spears with another aboard the ship. Aren was his name, he was a little older than Jon, but looked younger. He had a head of sandy blonde hair, thick and unwashed, and his body was slender and thin.

They practiced with the sword each day.  Attacking one another with blunted blades whilst the others in red and blue and yellow all pranced the desk around them, sorting through their boxes.  They would spar until they were drenched with sweat, until it beaded on their brow and dripped from their nose.

Jon had soon learned they called him Aren One-Eye, but he was clueless as to why, he had both of his eyes, a muddy brown colour they were. He may as well have had only the one, though, Jon found often found it too easy to best him at swordplay. Aren did not have a drop of the skill that Robb had. Where Robb, he was stronger and quicker than Jon, this one was weaker and slow.

Soon it turned to guilt every time Jon made a strike, every time Aren grunted beneath his blunted blade. Jon and Robb had been trained in a castle, by the master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel, a knight. Aren… he is only a sailor; he has no one to train him.

Jon decided to take that upon himself.

Every day, when the sun glistened on the waves and lit up the crimson sails, Jon and Aren met with their blunted blades and went about their practice. Whether it was atop the deck, below in the storage quarters or any place they could fit. Jon taught him to parry, to swing a hard strike and counter, and soon enough he found an oaken kite shield in the underbelly of the _Wind’s Wave_ , brown oak with rusted iron hinges. Aren had never used a shield before, and so Jon went about to teach him that too.

He was aching now, as he laid in his bed. It was a good ache, though, Ser Rodrik would always say that an ache after sparring would mean that you tried your hardest. And Jon would need his strength.  

Jon ran his fingers down the bed sheet, until he felt the leather sheath of his dagger. Lifting it up, he unsheathed the blade and watched as the dark steel scraped free, gleaming _._ The blades edge shone in the light in of the brazier, swirling ripples where the steel had been folded again and again.

It was still dark in his bunk however, and so Jon opened his wooden window panel so he could see the dagger better.

The Valyrian steel came alive in the finger of moonlight, whirling and glistening. Jon had polished the blade until his hands hurt even more than what they already had, and so his own reflection flashed at him, sprawling amongst the ripples. He did not look at it long though, he did not want to. His fifteenth nameday had passed, and his hair had begun to grew all the while aboard _Wind’s Wave,_ it would’ve been trimmed long ago if he was in Winterfell.

He ran a finger down the flat of the blade, as smooth as the summer sea, he thought. Then, a great slice of pain rattled from his fingertip and all the way down his hand, like a wave of sharp tendrils. He had sliced himself on the blades edge, sliced from a mere tap of the fingertip.

Jon winced quietly and sucked at the blood as it dripped from the crack in his finger, he had gone to close, to close to edge and he had reaped the consequences. And I thought my hands were tough, he reflected. Ghost bounced form the foot of the bed and nuzzled him, he had grown bigger over the near moon’s turn, as Jon felt he had too.

He used the blade to cut a slice from his white sheets, to then wrap it around his finger to stop the bleeding. The clear white turned to grey and then a crimson red. I’ll have to keep it covered during practice tomorrow, he thought, lest it bleeds and stings.

Tomorrow may be the last practice, or perhaps this day had been. They had been sailing to close a month, but Jon was not sure how long a journey across the narrow sea would take. And each time that he came to ask Belario, “Soon.” Was always the answer, and only that, nothing more. It never left Jon satisfied, every morn he woke, every time he broke his fast on salted beef or otherwise, he thought about that _soon._

Why did he want to reach Pentos so badly? So quickly? Jon did not like to think on it, for fear that he was consumed my guilt.

Guilt for Ned, guilt for Robb… for Arya.

I have other blood, Jon would say to his Stark kin in his dreams, Winterfell is not my place, it never will be. I want to see _them_ , to talk to them, to know them, to feel that I belong… You always belonged, they would reply, with us. But it was in howls that they spoke, and they were all wolves, green and gray and black and silver, eyes of yellow and gold and green. His were blazing red, on his back were ghost white wings.

There was seldom a night when he didn’t dream that dream, howls ringing in his head as he woke. Sad howls, they were, it made him feel so each time he donned his clothes to the start another day aboard the _Wind’s Wave._

You are all I wanted to be, Robb. You are your father, as I wanted to be him too…. an honorable man, honorable…

Jon Snow had others of his father’s blood, it was true, but in the dreams the Stark’s didn’t seem to hear him.

Eddard had told Jon their names, the night of the feast. And Jon had listened like hadn’t already known.

“Your uncle,” Eddard had said, his voice thin like old parchment. “Viserys Targaryen, he is his father’s son, truly. He fled Dragonstone with Ser Willem Darry, and his sister.”

“Daenerys Stormborn, she is called… Robert would have both of them killed.”

_He is father’s son,_ Jon often recalled those words, the Mad King? Aerys II had not always been mad, Jon had learnt, Viserys was only young… perhaps he was the same. Untouched by madness, he had raised his sister all this time. They think that they are alone…

They were the only two known Targaryen’s left to this world, would they deny him? He would need proof of his words, he did not have the beaten silver-blonde hair of old Valyria, or the violet eyes. He had taken his mother’s looks, Eddard told him, when Jon had always thought that he had gotten them from Ned himself.

He was of the north, grey of eye and black of hair, they would not believe him.

Or perhaps they would simply hate him, or even cast him away, try to kill him.

Or they could believe him. They are simply two, surely they would want to welcome another? Despite not having that of their look, perchance they would believe his words. Perhaps they would recognize him as their brother’s son… if so...

Sleep took him as he pondered on that thought.

Belario awoke him from the howls, with the light of the day streaming through his window in a narrow circle. He tapped Jon on the head, smiled and took his leave, as he always did – even if Jon didn’t see him for the rest of the day, he was the one who would wake him.

Jon propped himself up onto his elbows, letting Ghost run up his chest and lick at his face. Despite his tiredness, Jon laughed and nestled Ghost’s white fur with his hands.  

Afterwards, with the tiredness still in his eyes, Jon rose from his bed. Groaning, he donned thin grey woolen tunic and black woolen breeches. He had his own chest of cedar wood, an earthy colour that smelt like burnt coal, in it was all the garb that he had brought and anything else that he had gathered aboard the ship. Then came his boots, now they gleamed as the Valyrian steel had, Jon had polished them so.

The wooden planks thudded with each step he took, swaying slowly with the ship. Though his days on the _Wind’s Wave_ were pleasant, Jon was eager to step on hard, still land once again – to practice with sword and be sure of his feet, against stone and grass and mud.

Outside of his bunk, Dontin and Derron snored naked in their hammocks, swaying with the ship. Whilst at their left, Myke and Kayl Keller sat atop green-striped crates, one chewing sourleaf and an onion the other.

“Morning.” Myke lifted a red-stained finger, and grinned a red grin.

Ghost nipped at Jon’s heels, always close, always silent. Kayl Keller was regarding the direwolf slowly, many of the crew were used to him now, often stroking Ghost’s fur when Jon was nearby, calling his name and offering him salted beef. All did so save for dour Addam, called Dolorous Addam aboard the _Wind’s Wave,_ and a man even greyer than his hair called Keg. Jon did not care for them, though, he ignored their scowls and remarks.

Some nights, if he had not been working, Jon would join the rest of the crew to jest and drink. Daren Do-Little would bring out his woodharp and play all the songs he knew, and Jacks would begin to recall stories of the time he’d spent on other ships, _Black Tide_ and _The Stormy Servant,_ sailing from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea. Jon took each word well salted, but it was good to listen to as he ate.

And the wine, despite other things, the _Wind’s Wave_ was not without its wine. Jon would drink with the other sailors at their gatherings below the deck. He would drink as much red as he could until each night they started to keep his cups from him, perhaps because of his youth. It was always for the best, he would awake the next morning with a spinning head and an urge to throw himself into the sea. Whether their kindness was true or from the command of Thoran or Belario, or both, that Jon did not know.

Further onwards, spotted half with shadows, Aren One-Eye sat atop a barrel cleaning his nails with one of the dirks that Jon had given him. Jon couldn’t do so with his own dagger, it would easily be off with a fingernail.

He wore old ragged woolens, yellow and stained, though above it all draped a fine black cloak of satin.

“Ready?” Aren asked as Jon approached, slipping from the barrel.

“No.” Jon said. “But, you could help me with the crates.”

“You should give the captain whatever coin you got, so you don’t have to work with the crates. I don’t do no work with those crates.”

Jon shook his head. “You’re a sailor. And I need my coin.” 

“You’re on a ship. Coin don’t matter on ships.”

“For now.”

Aren shrugged. “Be that as it may. You keep working, then.”

“Are you going to help me?” Jon asked again.

You have nothing else to do, Jon thought as he watched Aren weigh his decisions. The only thing Aren had to occupy himself was their practice with blunted swords, and should the One-Eye refuse, Jon wouldn’t practice with him later.

“Tell you what,” Aren pointed his finger. “Beat me at swords, and I’ll help you.”

Jon laughed mockingly. “I always beat you at swords.” Aren knew that.

Aren shrugged again, he often did so. “Well, then you will have my help, if you’re going to so easily best me.”

Jon was half-tempted, to take a sword – albeit blunted -  into his hand and best Aren as quick he could. To hear the small ring that danced in his ears as their blades met, to swing his strikes with all the strength he could, to feel like he was in the courtyard again…

No. You have work to do, you lackwit.

“No.” Jon looked Aren straight in his two muddy eyes.

Aren sighed. “Come on then, let’s be quick about it at least.”

Jon laughed, patted Aren on the shoulder and turned his way to the steps that led to the deck. They were made of spare planks, where they were not splintered, they were painted black.

Once upon the deck, Jon looked past the black and crimson sails to see the sky was as a grey as Jon’s very own tunic, as grey as Keg’s hair. Walls of clouds blocked the sun, sending the ocean to look a deep, dark azure. Jon was grateful for the coldness in the air, at least, it would be a relief when they did practice. The sorters, in their queer robes, went about the crates and chests and baskets that were already stacked on the deck, inspecting them closely.

Jon approached the door of the quarterdeck, the captain’s chambers. He knocked twice, waited, and soon Belario emerged with his shining beard.

“Blue today, friend.” He said, then he was gone again.

Aren’s face was a puzzled one, he followed Jon back below the deck and said. “Which one’s the blue? What’s it for?”

“For trade,” Jon told him. “If we should pass another ship, trade goods for goods.”

Aren nodded.

They were many blue-striped crates stacked in the belly of the galleass, one on top of the other, until the uppermost reached the planked roof. They would never be rid of them crates themselves, they would only fill them with new gotten goods, to trade for more than what they had done before.

Jon was not the only one working, Myke was lifting them of the green stripes and two other men the blue and the red. Working in the day often meant that they were more to move than at the nights.  

Aren sighed, seeing them stacked on and on and on.

Jon rubbed his hardened hands together, took a sharp intake of breath and got to moving them, hesitating would do him no good. He had never thought about what would happen if one day he just…. didn’t work. Would they take his bunk away? That was one of the very few things he was grateful for aboard the ship, he did not want it taken away.

It was a simple order of work, once the feet were trained for it. He would find the crate of his colour, lift, it was then eight steps to planked, black stairs. And atop of them, Jon would simply drop the crate and return below.

“Today,” Aren began as they began their way upwards, for the fifteenth time. “We’re docking down today, Myke told me. And staying at port for the next week.”

No one had told Jon, but it was good news nonetheless, he supposed.

Jon dropped his last box with a groan, sweat beading on his brow. His woolens had started to latch themselves to his skin, like drenched confines. He was grateful for the cold in the air.

Sighing, Jon flexed the numbness from his hands and then closed them again. “I’ll be going then. When we make port.”

“Aye, you said so.” Aren began, wiping his hands together. “We should have our practice now, or you could stay awhile in Braavos, we can practice there too.”

What?

Braavos?

_They_ were not in Braavos; he did not want to go to Braavos. Belario hadn’t said Braavos.

Jon, scowling and boiling with rage, pushed his way past Aren, sending him tripping onto the planks. He climbed the steps, each footfall drumming in his head. Braavos? No, he did not want to go to Braavos.

Jon reached the door of the quarterdeck, ignorant the robed men that walked behind him. He pushed the doors open with his hardened palms.

They slammed to the sides with a thud so loud the ship seemed to shake.

Pale light leaked into the inside, shot with the figure of his own sprawling shadow. It was a square room, dark and small and unkempt. In the center sat an oaken table covered with parchments and books and ink and quill, and Belario was leant against it too, with Thoran sat before him.

Jon had never been in here before, and now he was glad of it.

“What is wrong, friend?” Belario walked towards him, as calm as he always was.

“I heard we were docking today.” Jon said, speaking as steady as he could.

“Yes, this is correct.”

“In Braavos?”

“Yes.”

Jon held his hands at his side, white-knuckled. “You said Pentos, you lied.”

“No, no, no,” Belario shook his head. “ _I_ never said Pentos, you did, friend.”

“Well,” Jon looked to his feet, he could feel his face turning even more red – and not with anger. “You said that this ship would take me wherever I needed to go!”

“He did.” Thoran’s voice suddenly sounded from behind his first mate. His voice sounded like that of Westeros, not Essos; not for a man with the name Thoran. As he approached, Jon noticed a grey streak down his jet-black hair, one that he hadn’t seen before.

Thoran walked around the table, donned in his black and crimson. “We are going to Braavos, we need to trade. But, from there we have another ship setting its sails to the Bay of Pentos.”

He pointed at Jon. “You need not worry, you will be on that ship.”

They both stared at him, their eyes judging, their eyes laughing at his anger. Jon remained still, thinking. Thinking whilst the robed men watched him from behind, and the others from the front.

They had left him without a choice.

Jon nodded and left the chamber as quick as his legs would allow him. He could feel the squinting eyes of the robed men digging into his back as he walked, and their scowls, they must have practiced their scowls – for they were so unique in giving them.  

Jon lunged down the splintered steps, and from afar Aren began to call for him. Jon ignored him, and the rest, Myke and Kayl and Keg and Daren, though not a single one of them had seemed to have heard him from above, they were too tired to even care.  

Jon closed his door, oddly as soft as he could and laid upon his featherbed. The window panel was still open, sending small splashes of water to brush against his forehead as the oars turned with a _thruumm._ Ghost sat beside the bed, watching the door should anyone try to enter.

He was half-tempted to sleep the rest of his time aboard, for a moment, Jon Snow did not want to be aboard the _Wind’s Wave_ any longer.

Before he could sleep, Kayl arrived with a platter of salted meat and a small wooden bowl of carrot stew. Jon thanked him as sincere as he could and took the food. He was more thankful now for his bunk than he had ever been.

Back across the sea, in Winterfell, he thought. Does Arya know I’m gone? She must know, they all must know. Would they search for me in the godswood? Or think that I am hiding the crypts like when they were young.

The riders that he had narrowly missed on his way to White Harbor, he had thought them riders sent by Eddard. But the more time he spent thinking on it the more he began to doubt, they carried no banner. They could’ve been sworn swords, or even hedge knights looking to board a ship from White Harbor, perhaps to a tourney.

And what of Ranger? Jon wondered as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. He would never know what had become of him, but he hoped that the man had rode south as he said he would.

He was feeding Ghost with the piece of salted meat when suddenly a great boom rippled from the ocean waves, shaking the ship. In a shock, Jon dropped the platter to the floor, spilling crumbs and meat and stew onto the planks. Ghost bared his fangs and began to pace, clawing the door.

Could it be another ship? Jon had never heard something so loud.

He crawled over his bed to the small window, where it smelt of salt. And he saw.

A titan, the titan. The Titan of Braavos.

The feet of it rested upon two separate mountains, on smaller islands nestled black spruce and solider pines. Its legs where the same dark granite of the islands on which it stood. Jon had only heard ever heard of this wonder by man, only ever by the Maester. The Titan was far bigger than anything Jon had ever imagined. One of its colossal stone hands rested upon the ridge, bronze fingers wrapped into the stone. The other thrust into the air carrying the hilt of a broken sword, nearing the clouds.

In the wind, the Titan’s green hair flapped about the bronze halfhelm, and inside boiled two fiery orange eyes.

A great shadow loomed over the _Wind’s Wave_ , until the waters seemed to go from blue to green to simply black. They were passing under the Titan; they were sailing into Braavos.

Jon leapt from his bed, forgetting the spilled meat and stew. Forgetting his anger. He pulled upon the door, wood scraping against wood. The storage quarters were all but empty, no one but Dontin still snoring in his drunkenness. The rest were gone, already on deck, he thought, and so Jon climbed the steps to join them.

Murder holes, they were so many of them – and arrow slits. There, under the Titan, ready to drop down burning oil and arrow on any passing foe. Crew and sailor and robed man alike sat staring up at them, and Jon could see others staring down at him.

The shadow passed as they stood gaping, and in an instant the crew went back about their duties. Jon assumed it was not the first time most of them had been here, not like him.

He returned to his cabin, stripped himself of his dried woolens and donned his finer garb. He would not seem proper if he crossed Braavos in sweating woolens, stinking. He hadn’t bathed in a fortnight, and he was starting the smell the beginnings of a stench. He would bathe in Pentos, when he found Viserys Targaryen.

Jon was strapping the thin black cloak about his shoulders when Aren entered.

“Hull,” Aren said, that was what they called him. Short for Hullen, they don’t even know my proper name. “You need to come with me.”

“What?” Jon asked, the ship had stopped a while ago, but he had been changing.

“Now,” Aren urged, he had a distressed look about his face, and from his hip hung a sword. Not a blunted one. “We have no time; they’re going to take you.”

“Me?” Jon strapped his own sword belt around his waist. “Who is going to take me?”

Aren closed the door quietly, looking to see if anyone was listening. “The captain, and that bloody Belario!”

He wasn’t making sense. “Aren, they’re showing me to a ship, not… _taking_ me!”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aren sat on the bed, eyed the spilled mess that was on the floor and then said. “They were talking to one of the Sealord’s customs officers, and they said they were taking you to another ship, to a magister!”

They had said nothing to Jon about a magister, nor he to them.  “Who? Who is the magister?”

Aren shook his head, lifting his hands as he tried to think. “Ah, I didn’t hear properly…. some, Ilvisio?”

“Ilvisio?” Jon didn’t understand. Why would they want to take him to a magister?

“What if they want to sell you?” Aren’s muddy-brown eyes were spinning. “Magisters, I heard they keep slaves.”

Jon’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. “I’m not a slave, they can’t sell me.”

“Any slave would say there weren’t one. They wouldn’t believe you, Hull.”

Jon stood from his bed and pulled the black hood of his cloak over his head. “Do I look like a slave?”

Aren regarded him, head to toe. “No, but they could make you look like one. Those Magisters, they’ve got guards, lots of them. They’ll put a collar around your neck and brand you.”

“They won’t!”

Aren then stood. “We need to go, we’re wasting time.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m going to Pentos, Aren. They’re getting me on a ship.”

“I know.” Aren nodded. “But they’re giving you to a magister, perhaps he’ll never let you leave. Come with me and I’ll take you to a ship, you can make your own choice from there. You can decided where you want to go and what you want to do. Please, Hull.”

Jon sighed, the silence seemed so loud his ears hurt. Both of Aren’s eyes – not just the one eye – seemed to grow wide, bigger and bigger until the brown was but a thin circle below the black of his pupil. Thoran had said he would get Jon passage to Pentos, but he hadn’t mentioned a magister.

What do I know about them? They had taken him when Jon had been desperate, from White Harbor where every other captain had refused him or were setting their sails elsewhere. This ship was too, it seemed. And despite how veiled Belario’s words were, he had lied.

Jon grabbed his dagger and lifted it to his waist. It would take too long to strap, he knew, so he shoved it under his sword belt instead. He then knelt over his cedar chest, looking down at the woolen tunics and steel plate that he had.

“That,” Jon pointed to the saddle sack. “Pass it here.”

Aren lunged over the bed and took of hold of it, Jon had never seen him move so fast, even when training.

“Here.” He said as he passed it to Jon.

The cedar chest had all his clothes, but he would only need a few. He threw the tunics and breeches that he had acquired aboard the _Wind’s Wave_ over his shoulder, to land into the cold salted beef and lumpy stew that spread amongst the floor. He packed the saddlebag with his leather tunics and cloaks, his steel plate and all that he had taken from Winterfell.

Finally, he gathered Ghost and placed him in the sack too. The direwolf didn’t seem to mind though, within he was still and silent.

Jon hoisted the sack around his shoulder, and sighed. “Lead the way.” 

Aren opened the door slowly, peaking through the narrow gap. “Come.” He said and left Jon’s bunk.

Jon followed, finding the underbelly of the ship empty. The crates, lined with their blue and red and green stripes stacked the corners anew. I won’t be lifting them anymore, Jon thought as he climbed the steps to the deck, and he was glad of it.

Aren sighed in relief, for the deck was empty too.  It seemed that the whole ship was empty, everyone had gone.  

“Where is the rest of the crew?” Jon asked they descended onto the stone pier. Here though, Braavosi’s ran ship to ship, some carrying notes of parchment and others queer hides and chests.

“The ship has to be inspected, before it can dock.” Aren lead them pass two slanting buildings, the stone mottled green and grey and black. “The inspections can last half a day, come, we must hurry.”

On they walked, pass many more a stone building, each tens of different rotting colours, roofs of black slate and green slate and purple. Each one had a different door too, painted in green and blue and red, houses with the red doors seemed to be the rarest, out of the ones they passed.

Jon followed Aren over a bridge looming its way over a green-watered canal, it spiralled onwards like a long ivy serpent.

The further they went, the more people they began to see, until they were crossing streets with old men and young men, crones and whores and children all running and standing and talking. If he had thought the _Wind’s Wave_ had smelt, this was far worse. And if Aren had talked as they made their way further inwards, Jon could not hear him over the sound of all the others.

They came to a large cobbled square, formed by slanted buildings lining either side. In the centre, atop a wooden pavilion a woman in red robes spoke loudly in a tongue that Jon did not understand. Masses had gathered around to listen to her, like moths to a flame.

Jon stopped and watched, her voice was like a broken woodharp, cracking, creaking but loud and clear all the same. She swept her hands gracefully around her, red robes flashing, her hands seemed to be set ablaze.

She pierced her eye on Jon, red it looked, and the other was but an empty socket. He gasped.

“ _Zaldrizes!”_ The woman cried, her eyes blazing like that of his direwolf. “ _Zaldrizes! Zaldrizes! Zaldrizes!_ ”

Her long pale finger pointed, and soon the crowd began to turn.

“Come on.” Aren yanked him by the shoulder, and Jon followed as fast his legs would allow him.

He did not understand.

It did not seem to matter to Aren. On and on they went, further and further. Over more bridges, this city seemed to be built on small stone bridges lapping over green canals. They passed houses after house, painted door after painted door. Jon saw a young sandy haired man throwing a dagger into the air, he had a narrow thin sword at his belt, thin as a needle. And he saw a dwarf, a mummer and a eunuch, a man selling baked break from a broken stall and another selling silver hilted swords from atop a trestle table, mounted in the center of the street.

Aren then came to a stop, grasping Jon by the shoulder.

A long harbor stretched out before them, it seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Over the green waters, jetty’s stretched out in spiral patterns, thinner there and thicker here. Trading cogs and galleys filled the gaps, as stacked as the houses that lined the city.  They went from small ships with forty oars to other hundred oar big-bellied beasts, all in many hues of red and blue and green and yellow.

Crew and sailor, whore and porter, ropemaker, mummer, sailmender, taverner, brewer, baker and beggar alike scurried around like ants, some going about their duties and others standing still, looking across at one another.

The harbor had a stench too, one of fish greater than that of White Harbor. Like a thousand unwashed men and women and children were all packed into a single chamber, in truth, that was what it seemed to be.

“The Ragman’s harbor.” Aren turned to face Jon, one hand still grasping him by the shoulder. “There’s a ship here.”

“There are many ships.” Jon said. In the saddlebag, Ghost rustled.

Aren frowned. “Yes, but only the one I know will take you to Pentos.”

How? Jon thought to ask, but his lips remained sealed. It didn’t matter how. “Which one?”

Aren smiled despite his worried look, and pointed. “That one.”

Jon saw. It was trading cog, fifty oars perhaps with blue sails rippling in the wind. It was mere thing to the size of the _Wind’s Wave._ “ _That_ one?” Jon asked.

“Yes, I know this ship, see. Pay them and they will take you to Pentos.”

“I told you I must keep my coin.”

“Then you will not get to Pentos. You will be a slave, Hull.”

Jon sighed, Aren had the truth of it, besides the slave part. Coin spoke words, more words than what Jon Snow could say to most captains.  

“How much?” Jon asked, he could not spend all of it.

“A few silvers.”

A few silvers, that was all he had.

If he did not reach Pentos, what was the purpose of his journey? If he did not reach the prince and princess, what was there left for him to do? Where else could he go? Winterfell, he could not return there, not now, not to face the dishonour.

Jon approached the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, chuck a kudos or a comment, or both if you enjoyed!
> 
> PumpkinKingOfGames, thanks for the help!  
> I'm not sure if any of you have begun to pick up parts for a, greater mystery, if so leave your thoughts in the comments! Who is ilvisio?  
> [Note: Next chapter, a time skip will occur, I think it's time the dragons came closer]


	4. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning, and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been the longest wait, but I've been very busy recently.  
> Thank you PumpkinKingofGames.  
> Enjoy.

**JON**

His feet hit the ground with a thud, sending tufts of dirt to drift into the wind.

Strong winds, they were. Rolling from the sea to meet the bay, they often sent cloaks to flapping, bells to ringing and the hulls and decks that swayed in the harbor creaked their dismay. But Jon Snow was not a stranger to these winds, he had suffered worse.

Whist aboard the _Scarlet Valant_ Jon had been without the pleasure of a cabin _,_ with its very own small wooden door and window and brazier, nor did he have a cedar wood chest for all his garb and weapons.  Instead he had a white woolen hammock, full with fleas and swaying amongst the rest of the crew below deck, small and itching with a dirty saddle sack for a pillow. Jon didn’t mind though, not truly, and so he had not complained. It was the very ship taking him to where he wanted to go, he was able to endure a hammock and fleas, at least.

It hadn’t been as long a journey from White Harbor to Braavos, aboard the _Wind’s Wave._ The _Scarlet Valant_ had sailed endlessly from the Ragman’s harbor, through day and night and a day again before rest, and the same over and over. The winds were always blowing on their side.  

Though the journey was a dark one for Jon, made longer by his very own anguish. His thoughts and memories were a cloud of blackness, sometimes forgotten by the light of the sun but ever there, never truly gone. And when the time came that the cloud rained down those memories upon him, memories of Winterfell – Jon wished he had his own cabin then, so the others could not see his tears.

There is no time for that now, Jon thought, he was angry that he had ever even let those tears fall. It was him that had left Winterfell, turned his back on the granite walls and cold air, it was him and no one else. And now he was here, Pentos, and he would not cry again.

Pentos is Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, my blood. And soon my belonging, he hoped.

They are here, amongst the pale stone walls and towers and red temples, somewhere. But where _exactly?_

He stood amongst the river of moving sailors, crew and captain going about their work, sweaty and panting. What was Pentos loomed before him, up and up as the bay turned from creaking jetty’s and swaying cogs to square sandy colored buildings, to walls and then to tall towers. Jon pulled the hood of his cloak over his head with a gloved hand, the other resting atop the pommel of his sword.

Despite their being no Aren aboard the _Scarlet Valant,_ he had used his sword many a time – not for fighting though. On the _Wind’s Wave,_ there had been Dontin and Derron and Daren-Do-Little, sourleaf Myke and Kayl Keller, each a friend. And soon Jon came to miss even Dolorous Addam or Grey Keg, for the crew on the trading cog had been far worse. The sword and the dagger were Jon’s only means of protection, what if they meant do in harm as he slept? He had kept his longsword along his chest come the night, sleeping with one hand on the hilt and one eye open.

But the ship had taken him all the same, all the way to Pentos despite his mistrust. He was here, alive, and that was all that mattered.  

Now, he need only find those he had come to seek, though Jon suspected that would be the real hardship of his journey.

They were the last known to their blood, the last dragons, and such would not leave them to scamper the streets, like common beggars with no names at all. It was their very names that could bring many a man and woman endless fortune, through loyalty or betrayal. Robert Baratheon would perchance even offer titles and lands to beggar and merchant alike willing to send proof of their death, Jon judged. He hoped now that they were not in the company of one willing to do so.

With Pentos came magisters, such was a powerful title in the Free Cities. Perhaps the magisters would take the prince and the princess into their manses and estates; to guard them with sellswords and spies of their own. If the two had been dwelling a while in this city, Jon assumed the magisters would not go long without knowing.

The Others take you Aren, Jon thought bitterly, perhaps he should have stayed with Belario and Thoran, and talked to them instead of running. Only coin and offers would gain him audience with the magisters - they would have no interest in some Westerosi stranger - but Jon did not have the coin to spend and the offers to give.

You are here, he told himself again and again, what was done was done. Jon looked once more at the Pentos before him, both shimmering and dusty with sandy winds, the rocks sweating in the light of the sun. You are here, and you have all the time to find them.

Jon hoisted the saddle sack over his shoulder, heavy with garb and mail and dirk, and Ghost. He stepped his way past the moving sailors and into the burgeoning rows of square, pale buildings. Between them were narrow streets, crooked like a stretching river, and like many rivers it was full to brimming. So much so Jon could not take more than thrice a step without bumping against a shoulder or chest, earning one groan after another.

There were more here than in the scurrying lot in the Ragman’s harbor, and there had been more in the Ragman’s than those in White Harbor, and more in White Harbor than Winterfell. Jon had forgotten none of it, the crypts and the tall merman, the houses with the red doors.

Jon passed a market street, scattered with wooden stalls both big and small. Voices hailed and called in tongues that he did not know, though he thought he could hear ‘fish’ clearly, but he could never be certain. He came to see a smaller stall, wooden and leaning on crooked and broken stands selling peppered fish and tears of roasted chicken, drowned in butter. The sight made his belly churn, he was hungry, he had been hungry for the last week. The hard caked bread and solid stew had always left him feeling hungry aboard the _Scarlet Valant_ , and even more so as he stared the fish with its peppers.

Jon sighed and turned away, back into the narrow streets. He had little coin left, and whatever he could use it for now, it had to get him closer to where he wanted.

He walked and walked until he was unsure where he even was, merely following the upwards slopes. I need an order to this folly, Jon decided and came to a stop in the street. He rubbed the sweat from his brow, searching every crack in this city will not help me, not at all.

He moved past the crowd until he found a wide bulk structure of an inn, at least if that was what they were called here. It too, was square and sandy colored like all the others, with narrow window slits and tall wooden doors.

Outside those doors, masses of men and women and children stood embraced in each other. Some had the nut brown skin of what seemed the Summer Islanders, and others a red-brown or charcoal-and-earth colour, some had hair of white and brown, blonde and red. Jon had never seen the like before.

The common room was large and circular, dusky with pale dappled light leaking through the narrow window slits and cracks, and the air smelt… thick. Thick like ale and sweat and sourness. He found a place where the smell lingered the least, an enclosed corner lit by a single candle, and set himself down upon a stool.

Let me have a rest, too, however small. And then I will look for them, day and night. They are here, Jon told himself as he brought the saddle sack to his feet, they are, Eddard said so. He need only think of a way to find them, a plan that would give him a chance, at least.

Jon rested the saddle sack between his legs, covered from the top of the oaken table. Ghost freed his snout and blazing red eyes from the grey woolen confines. He will soon be too large for a mere sack; Jon was surprised that Ghost had managed without growing restless. He hoped that when the time came that the direwolf was too large to hide, he would have no need of concealing him anyway.  

Jon stroked the white fur of Ghost’s head, over his pointed ears. There was seldom a moment when he could even look upon him, never mind run his fingers through the soft white bristles. Like he would have Arya’s, if she was here with him. He would muss her hair and call her little sister. But now he would never see her again.

Suddenly, a great weight fell onto his lap. Jon hunched forward, gasping for a breath, and finding his head to meet a bare shoulder.  

“Has this one come for the day?” A woman asked, her voice foreign and languid like water.

Jon brought her head up and saw her. She was blonde of hair, blue-eyed and fair to look at. She straddled her legs either side of him and craned her slender arms over his shoulders. But her smile was too large, too bright, too _trained._ How could she be so happy to see me when she has no knowledge of who I am?

Jon then realized, this was no inn.

And she was a whore. “Does this one want a room with me? He is happy to see me, I think.” her voice was the smoothest thing he had ever heard.  

Luckily, the hood of his black cloak still covered his face. She could not see him fully, or the redness growing in his features, but that didn’t seem to matter. No one else seemed to even offer a glance, and the longer he tried looked away the tighter her grip on his neck.

She tried to force his head upwards, to face her, perhaps to kiss him. Jon resisted, bringing his hands onto her wrist. Her skin was soft and pale, where his hands were rough and hard.

Jon brought her wrists down but stopped suddenly, holding her arms still. In another dusky corner, across many a table seized by man and woman and food and wine, three men emerged from the shadows.

At the front of them, a tall blue-haired man walked, clad in brown brigandine and patches of plate. Two steel pauldron’s covered his shoulders, with two clasps holding up his long cerulean cloak. On his hands and arms were iron studded vambraces, scuffed with marks and slashes. His trimmed beard of blue scraped against the scarf tied about his neck. From his belt hung two daggers, shaking as he walked, but it was the greatsword sheathed on his back that caught Jon’s eyes. It was Ice come again, like Eddard’s Valyrian greatsword, so long it stretched nigh over his head and pass the bottom of his hips. Two others followed, the both of them hung longswords from their leather belts, clanking with each step. They scanned those around them as they went, hands brushing their hilts.

It was a sudden desperation, a feel of utter need, that made him want to follow them. It was a feeling he had seldom felt before, and now he would suffer to it. Or did he simply want to be free of the girl?

She was still talking when he finally brought his head up to face her, his hood tugging loosely at the back of his head to reveal the full of his face.

Her lips grew tight, silent, her eyes narrowing as she swallowed his features. Move, he thought to tell her, they are leaving!

Then she smiled, and Jon could only sigh.

Her hips began to grind again, and despite his desperation to be free of her, his arms were growing weak. Jon mustered all the strength he could gather, and with a groan he lifted her from his lap and onto the table. Perhaps she thought it playful, but her look soon turned to disappointment when Jon gathered his saddle sack and made for the open doors.

The three men were lost to him when Jon emerged back into the narrow streets, out of the tall wooden doors of the brothel. The cobbles of the floor were shot with dappled light coming through the rips in the cloth above that stretched from building to building, they were there for shade perhaps, but did little to shade anything, only made things harder to see.

Jon shuffled past the crowds of men and women that moved all around him. Until in the distance, up a curving path he saw only the back of a greatsword as its bearer turned a corner to another way.   

He had little reason to follow, and even less hope. The man-grown that he was, he knew it would be proper to turn away and deem it a missed chance, a simple curiosity. He would go back inside that brothel and lay with that beautiful woman who wanted him, but Jon Snow was not like most men, and that whore would have already occupied herself with another. Where else could he go? I have come here on chances, Jon supposed, on hopes, on tales and waves of my own anger.

I am here now, and I have all the time to find them.

Jon yanked his hood as hard as he could, further over his face to conceal his features. His right shoulder was too sore to hold the sack any longer, and so he switched to his left and followed them up the path.

The street grew fuller as he went, ducking his way past an arm and stepping between two bodies. A song of a thousand foreign tongues mingled in the air, voices of men and women and children, high and low, clear and cracking.  It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think.

Jon stepped around the cobbled corner of the street, gasping for a moment of stillness. He saw the three men turning yet again, though this time they went left instead of right, and so Jon shifted the sack on his shoulder and began to follow them once more.

He had no clue where they were going, nor he could see for himself. For the square sandy buildings that lined the streets either side blocked view of what was upwards. But he followed them all the same, his boots thudding against the sandy stone. He knew that he should be searching for ones that had brought him here, but he couldn’t stop himself from following.

Once again, the next turn he took led him onto yet another path, thin and narrow and long. But unlike the others, he was without sight of the three men or the greatsword, and at the end this road split into two other streets, long and narrow still.

Which way had they taken?

The longer he pondered, they further they would go. Which way? How could he know?

He stood still in the middle of the path, the sweat forming on his brow and falling down his nose and cheeks. Which path, left or right? Ghost rustled in the sack, the heat was overwhelming, he would have to find some more shade soon. Which way? Which way? Right or left? Left or right, which way did they go?

Right, he decided suddenly, his legs moving beneath him. Right wound upwards, long and narrow but straight, and further onwards he could see the brimming of a tall square towers and walls topped with iron spikes. Perhaps a magisters manse, I could try and talk to them. The left path trailed downwards, bending like a serpent into nothing but tiled roofs and dusty markets. He would not find a prince and a princess below tiled roofs and dusty markets.

I will go right, right and upwards. To the towers.

The path grew thinner as he went, and less people seemed to fill the space, less voices and breaths. And soon Jon realized he was walking without grunts and bumps against his shoulders. He stopped.

There is no one, he noticed as he turned and scanned the street.

Nothing but the wind, the drifting of the dust that skimmed the cobbles on the ground, the strung pale cloth that stretched from building to building, no one but me. Suddenly, he felt an eerie sense of fear.

Perhaps the three men had gone left, and downwards to the dusty markets, where there would be others to walk amongst. And mayhaps right was the wrong way to go, and upwards would only take him nowhere in his hope to reach them. Am I looking for three strangers, or the prince and princess? At that moment, he could not decide.

A smash of breaking platters sounded behind him, suddenly shattering the silence in his ears. Quickly, Jon turned face the upwards length of the path.

A frail wooden stall crashed against the cobbles, breaking into a thousand pieces. Splinter and broken porcelain; cloth and glass and dust all spread across the path like a broken army. The deep _thud_ of its landing echoed down the street and all the way to the bay, over the shore and waves. In the distance, a flock of birds took flight.

Then the men appeared.

The first fell at Jon’s feet, gasping and gripping his bloodied shoulder. It was him who knocked over the stall, Jon realized, with sudden caution. In the man’s left hand was a longsword, bare and glimmering. He coughed up and coughed again, thick coughs. He spat blood onto the stone and wiped his mouth with a hand.

Silently, Jon watched as the man rose to his feet, staggering. And soon the other behind him emerged past the stall panting and spinning on his heels, again and again and again, like someone was suddenly going to strike him from every angle.

They were not any of the three men than Jon was following, three that had led him up this road in the first place. Each were blonde of hair, where the two others had been black, one a darker shade and another lighter. These men wore crimson stained garb, though Jon could see that the cloth below the boiled leather was deep ivy.

The coughing man caught Jon in his view, looking at him from head to toe. He coughed blood again and wiped it away.

Jon Snow remained still, watching, his heart pounding in his chest. Where was everyone else? The people, and their foreign tongues shouting? That was better than this.

His face soon turned to disgust as he looked Jon up and down, and then came a look of anger, of pure rage. He brought his right hand down from his injured shoulder and gripped the hilt of his longsword, facing the sharp point towards Jon Snow.

He means to fight me.

Why? Jon wondered, what had he done to make the man so angry? Where were the guards, the people?

When Jon looked down, he saw that in his shock he had freed his own longsword of its scabbard. The edge sheened in the light, his hand gripped the virgin leather of the hilt so tight it burned through his gloves and onto his skin.

We will fight, then.

And in that moment, Jon had forgotten about everything else. The empty streets, the sandy square towers and the iron spiked walls, the tiled roofs and the dusty markets, the three men and the greatsword, the girl in the brothel, the many foreign tongues and the _Scarlet Valant,_ of Winterfell and the Starks, the Targaryen’s.

All that mattered was the men before him, and the sharp steel that pointed his way.

Jon slung the saddle sack from his shoulder and onto the stone cobbles. His grey eyes never straying from his foe.

The sack landed with a clink, and his opponent laughed…

...then lunged forward, his blade falling in a downright curve, hissing through the air.

Jon met it with his own, the screech of their colliding swords echoed on and on through the narrow streets. Where is everyone? Jon thought again, vividly. It was the wrong thing to do. A leather fist collided with his face, sending him trembling backwards with the taste of blood in his mouth.

It was a taste of salty metal, or copper coins. Jon winced as he touched his lip, finding it cracked and bleeding. His opponent stood looking downwards at him, smirking, grinning a grin of rotten teeth. The other blonde haired man behind was still turning, over and over, perhaps he was searching for his courage.

Jon flung the blood aside and struck at his opponent’s legs, groaning as he did so. But his strike was blocked, easily and quickly. Jon brought back his sword and struck again, this time at the head, not legs.

Steel danced against steel, beaming the light, burning like a star when the edges came to meet, grinding. It was a beautiful sight, perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The flares of the sun gleaming here and there, the sudden flash when… a great shot of pain spiraled from the side of Jon’s stomach, like a hundred daggers stabbing at his insides, up his chest and to his head, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.

His foe’s blade had found the skin of his side, cutting through roughened black leather and wool.

He has me.  

Jon reached a hand down to his side, finding blood to dapple on his sweaty fingertips. He could hear nothing else but his own breathing, desperate, like a boy about to die in his first real fight. And suddenly the blood is mouth tasted rotten.

The strike had cut deep, part of his sweating flesh hung by a red fleshly tendril. Blood leaked from the gaping wound as Jon’s knees buckled and he fell to his arse, when the blood met the sun-boiled ground it seemed to _hiss_ and burn. The blonde haired foe stood towering over him, a shadow, like the Titan of Braavos itself. His eyes were burning with amusement, fury and fire.

Get up!

He reached for his sword, clattered against the dusty stone, and wrapped his hand around the hilt.

But Jon could not find the strength to lift it, all his strength had left him, in the form of crimson droplets leaking from his side. It was like the heaviest object he had ever known, even if it was the lightest. The pain was too much.

His foe raised his own longsword high above his smirking head. He means to end this, now, with my dead body against the sandy stone.

Behind, the other no longer turned endlessly, but he fought his own fight… with a man of blue hair.

Jon groaned, he screamed and shouted as he tried to lift his arm, his sword! I must, he could see the blood pooling from his side, he could taste it and hear it and smell it.

Then he saw white, a flash.

Ghost leaped from behind him, a blur like the wind. He clenched his bared fangs around his foes sword arm and dug his teeth into the bare flesh, snarling and growling as he pulled the man to the ground.  And in that moment, Jon found his strength.

He lifted his sword and stood, towering over the screaming man before him. I did not want to fight you, Jon thought as he watched him try to free himself of Ghost’s iron grip.

Then Jon dug his longsword into the man’s chest, through boiled leather and ivy cloth, through wool and cotton, through flesh and muscle, _crunching._ Jon twisted his sword until the light left his foes eyes, blue eyes they were, lifeless and cold.  He would have killed me, Jon told himself, fingering the bleeding wound at his side.

Sweat still beaded on his brow, the sun had never seemed so bright. Jon Snow fell back to the floor, his sword clattering beside him.

Ghost ripped at the body, Jon wiped the growing taste of blood from his mouth.

A grunt sounded in the distance, causing Jon to lift his head. One fight was not yet finished.

The man in blue stood surrounded, a foe at his front and another at his back, both wielding polished longswords, sharp and shining. Though the Blue held two daggers in either hand, instead of the huge greatsword that swung on his back. The daggers blade curved like a crescent moon, thin and sharp.  Jon saw wisdom in using the daggers, the greatsword was too large.

Perhaps I should help him. Jon did not know where the third man had come from, but he knew where his own longsword was, and today he had killed a man.

His wound throbbed as he tried to rise. Jon Snow fell back again, grunting.

When he brought his gaze upwards, his hair stuck to his brow with sweat. The blonde-haired man, who had spun and spun, was dead. A dagger, curved like a crescent moon, buried in his throat.

The Blue stood towering over the pale corpse, wielding only one dagger in his hand. His eyes flashed at Jon before he turned, so quick, so graceful, like he had been born to fight.

He ducked his opponents blade as it swung for his head, a blur of blue hair, brown and steel. He spun and spun, crouched all the while, until a gurgle sounded. And the other man fell, a crescent dagger buried in his throat too.

Jon watched in awe, eyes wide as the man fell to join his ally on the sandy stone, dead, lifeless, cold. The Blue unsheathed his daggers from the dead men’s crimson-stained flesh, he wiped them over until they gleamed once again, and tucked them back under his belt.  

Then he stepped towards Jon, eyeing his bloodied sword.

His eyes were narrow, serious and solemn, and as blue as his hair, so blue they seemed purple. Behind, the two other men -who he had followed from the brothel – emerged past the broken stall, longswords unsheathed, and stained with blood.

They looked over the three bodies lying cold on the ground, pooling in their blood. Their gazes then crept towards the Blue, nodding as they sheathed their longswords.

Ghost stood at Jon’s front, fangs bared, growling as the Blue stepped toward them. Jon reached out a bloodied hand and calmed him, bringing a cease to his growling. Blood stained the white bristles on his back, his own blood.

The Blue kneeled before him, staring Jon in the eyes.

“Who are you?” He asked, looking over Jon’s sweating face.

His voice had little tint of an accent. Westeros, Jon realized, he’s from my home. Though he had no idea exactly where in Westeros, he had only ever known the north.

The two other men approached. “Hu-” Jon coughed. “Hullen.”

It may have satisfied the Blue, but not any of the others. “You lie.” One of them called in an accent, Jon did not know which one. The sun was so bright, he couldn’t see.

What did his name matter here? I have no place, Jon wanted to say, I'm a bastard, I have no rights, no name, no mother, and now not even a father. The words would not come.

“Jon Snow.” Jon finally said, almost a whisper. And then he knew it was wrong.

The Blue’s eyes widened, his arms reached for Jon’s shoulders and pulled him close, so much so Jon could feel his breath.

“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard.” He said, his blue eyes met the floor.

No! Jon thought to shout.

But his head was spinning.

The sun… so bright.

Then it was black.

When he woke, he was sat in a cushioned chair. With the Blue leaning over him.

He blinked back the darkness, the tiredness, and gazed at his surroundings. They were inside, where the sandy stone had been there was instead polished black marble and Myrish carpets. The walls were black too, and shining.

It was a bedchamber, he came to realize as he spotted the huge bed in the center, draped with cream and white sheets. Further onwards, a great balcony opened, and he could see the Bay of the Pentos and the dusty air.

Then he saw the glint of a knife, his heart quickened.

“Stop!” Jon brought an aching arm up in defence, stopping the Blue’s dagger from nearing him. His voice was raspy, cracked and dry.

“I only mean to cut the fabric of your tunic, not you.”

Jon relaxed, he felt oddly safe. He had seen this man fight, and never anyone like him before.

He cut at Jon’s tunic with his dagger, pulling away the fabric sticky and caked with blood. The wound itself seemed to smell, Jon felt a stab of pain shoot through him and winced, though it seemed like a fair consequence when compared to the man he had killed, lying dead on the dusty stone.

“What’s your name?” Jon sighed as the Blue as he pressed a cloth to his wound.

He sniffed, wiped his nose and got back to his feet. “Duncan.” He replied, scratching his blue beard.

Duncan, that was better than Blue.

Duncan sheathed his crescent dagger and said. “You mustn’t worry; the wound will be fine.” His voice seemed to betray his words. Duncan scratched his blue beard again. “I will send for a healer.”

When he was at the door, which was made of polished iron and onyx, he turned back to what was Jon Snow, wincing in a cushioned chair. “Do not leave this room,” he said, with utter seriousness. “Not until I return.” 

Then he was gone.

Jon rose, swallowing the pain and approached the balcony.

The cold air caressed his sweaty brow, the last he could remember the very air had been warm and sticky too, but now it was the sweetest thing he had ever felt.

Beneath him six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their willowy branches brown and bare. A painted statue of marble stood on the water, poised to duel with a thin blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome looking, perhaps a little older than Jon himself, with straight blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. He is polished marble, Jon knew, but he looked anything but that, he looked _real._

Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. I saw these walls, Jon remembered, or was it some others? Onwards was the city, a crowded sheet of titled rooftops piling around a bay. It will do here for a time, wherever it was, perhaps Duncan knows where Viserys is, but I cannot go until my wound is healed.

Ghost came to Jon’s side, he smiled and stroked his fur.

It was nigh on half an hour before the healer arrived. He was a queer sort of healer, Jon supposed, he looked nothing like what Maester Luwin had.

Where there had been grey robes on the maester, this one had gold and purple, emblazoned with black lining. Where the chain of the Citadel had hung was instead a long ivy scarf of the purist silk, jingling with small polished bells.

He set down a stained hide skin atop the bed and asked Jon to lay it, he did so, then removing what was left of his battered tunic.

The bald healer handed him a round cup, inside was milk of the poppy.

Jon shook his head. “I don’t need-”

“You do,” the healer shook his head. “Yes, you do. This is going to hurt.”

It was all Jon could do to not retch up it back up as he drank.

He then went to clean the wound of its sodden blood, and even with the poppy slowly filling his head, Jon had to hold back screams every time the healer’s fingers poked and prodded.

“I was cut with a sword.” Jon gasped, why was he telling him this? The potion was clouding his wits.

“But, Ghost…” He could see the direwolf laid beside him, watching over his body, watching for a wince of pain to strike the healer. Jon fisted his fur as hard as he could.

Jon heard a splash, the healer had put the bloody cloth back into the basin. And suddenly a red hot knife appeared, where did he get that from?

“No...” Jon struggled under the healer’s grip, he was surprisingly strong.

“This you need, do not struggle.”

Ghost seemed to look at him with a face telling him to _accept it,_ Jon tensed as the glowing blade neared his side.

I will not scream, he thought, but that was soon forgotten.

The healer held him down with one hand, and Jon did not move. He only fisted Ghost’s fur harder and harder, until he was so sure it hurt that he expected the direwolf to run. But when the red hot knife poked again, that was soon forgotten too, and Jon Snow fainted.

When his eyelids cracked open, he was naked and sweating and floating. He could see himself, through another’s eyes, but it did not matter. And for a time he slept.

The next awakening, he was seeing through his own eyes again, and with that, came the pain. It was not wise to try and stand, but he tried anyway, resulting in a groan and sting from his side.

“The wound is closed; best you don’t open it again.”

Jon turned at the voice, sat beside the bed was Duncan. He is a good fighter, Jon thought queerly, the milk of the poppy was still heavy on him.

Duncan no longer wore his brown brigandine or patches of steel plate, nor his daggers or his greatsword. His garb was fine black velvet, like Benjen’s had been, but inlaid with grey finery. His polished boots were knee high and gleaming. And Jon saw that his hair and beard had been cut, and perhaps even freshly dyed, for now they burned a brighter blue. He is the best fighter, Jon told himself again.

Jon himself was bare above the waist, and with nothing to cover his chest up with, he closed his eyes and said. “Where am I?”

Jon could feel Duncan lean forward. “Jon, whatever I will say, you cannot leave this room until I allow you.”

Why? He thought, but he nodded all the same.

“You are in Pentos,” he began, Jon knew that already though. “In the manse of magister Illyrio Mopatis.”

Jon’s eyes shot open. “Ilvisio?”

Duncan shook his head. “Has the poppy taken your ears, too? Illyrio, I’m sure.”

Aren had said that he didn’t hear properly. Damn you Aren, Jon thought, if this was the same place, the same magister, perhaps he would have been brought here free of a wound… free of…

“How do you know me?” Jon blurted, the pain still at his side.

“That is a longer story, for when you are healed.” He rubbed his hands together. “Those men, the one you killed. Do you know who they were?”

Jon shook his head. “No. He broke the stall, I… I don’t know who he was.”

Dead, that was all that could be said for them now.

“They were hired knives.” Duncan admitted, with sadness in his voice. “They are getting closer. The King pays them.”

The King? “Robert Baratheon? Why would he send people to kill you? Who are you?”

“They didn’t seek me, though much to their misfortune it was me they found.” He scratched at his blue beard, freshly dyed and trimmed. “They were looking for the ones you seek, Jon Snow, they were looking for the Targaryen’s.”

Jon looked straight at him, forgetting the pain. “How do you know?”

“I know,” he said. “I _know,_ they know.”

 

**DAENERYS**

She had never seen him so angry.

Someone had woken the dragon, and it was not her.

Dany had been playing at a game with Marah, one of Illyrio’s slaves, when her brother had stormed him and taken her away. His mouth was agape and spewing fury, his violet eyes ablaze.

“A bastard.” He spat, pacing as he had been for the last hour. “How dare he seek the dragon.”

Dany sat silently on a cushioned chair, with her eyes fixed on the marble floor and her heart pounding in her chest. She was scared, more scared than she had ever been.  

But for all Viserys could do though, he could not hear her thoughts. Daenerys could not help wonder who had made him so wroth.

She pitied whomever it was, though she could not summon the courage to ask.

“ _A pup of the Usurper,”_ he reached for a goblet on a round oaken table and flung it across the room, it clattered against the white marble and spewed crimson wine onto the floor. “A scoundrel from our lands.”

Dany did not flinch; she did not dare to. She tensed her shoulders, her head and her hands and her heart, hoping that soon he would calm and leave her. You are blood of the dragon too, she told herself, but she was without the fire – without courage.

Then a different voice emerged, one more kindly.

Dany relaxed her shoulders at seeing Duncan emerge, as they called him. He eyed the goblet, rolling in a red pool atop the marble floor, and then looked to Viserys. Her brother brought a cease to his pacing and curses of all the things beyond the walls of her bedchamber, and the bastard, whoever it was. Viserys would never dare do so in the presence of Duncan, he hid his rage from him.

“Come, Viserys.”

Viserys nodded. Though before he followed Duncan from her chamber, he approached Dany’s shrunken form. She tried her best not to waver as he crept a hand up her arm, leaving goose pimples behind on her pale skin to be seen in the moonlight.

“You do not leave this room, sweet sister.” He said in a sly, quiet voice. “You do not want to reap the truth wroth of the dragon, do you?”

Dany shook her head under his shadow. _Please,_ she prayed. His fingers pinched her cheek red until he turned and took his leave.

Daenerys sat still on her cushioned chair, hugging her knees. She had never been so frightened in that moment, even with Duncan at the door. She feared how much worse it could have been if he had not been there, for the times when he wasn’t… Dany didn’t like to think about those times.

The silence surrounded her, so much so she didn’t dare to break it, for the fear that the fright would flush through her again. And so she sat, for minutes and for hours, with her head leant against her knees, her pale gown growing sodden with her tears. Viserys would return and she would be his to torment, for the follies of another.

Illyrio had kept them at his manse for more than a year now, and even that seemed for too long to be real. The manse was a home, it was not the streets, it was the lemon trees and the pond, the servants and workers, so why did Dany feel so lonely?

When she dared to walk over to her bed, Duncan arrived.

“Daenerys,” he caught eye of her tears before Dany could wipe them away.

He sat down beside her, scratching at his blue beard freshly dyed and trimmed. “You mustn’t cry over your brother, my lady. He wouldn’t hurt you, I wouldn’t let him.”

He does hurt me, Dany thought. But she said. “Do we have to move again?”

They had wandered from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and onto Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in one place. This manse was different, though; Dany did not want to leave.

Duncan stretched an arm around her shoulder. “No, we do not. We-”

“Why is Viserys so angry? Who is the bastard?”

He only sighed, his eyes leaving hers. “My lady,” he began, he always called her that, Dany had treasured it from the very first time he had called her so, twelve years ago. “Your brother, he does not understand… not yet. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. But, something unexpected has occurred and… I’m afraid we cannot simply ignore it.”

“Ignore what?” Dany asked, her violet eyes searching his face for an answer.

Duncan swallowed and said. “Come the morrow, you will know. Sleep now, my lady. I’m afraid you may have to be woken early.”

He squeezed her shoulder and smiled, Daenerys did not want to see him go. He was her shield, against everything beyond that door, the Usurper and his dogs and hired knives, of the place beyond the narrow sea that she had never seen, these places her brother talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her.

Dany could hear the singing of red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment, when the door closed behind Duncan, she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no morning to dread. But she was not, she was the blood of the dragon too.

Though Viserys had not returned that night, it was him who woke her.

He pulled the crimson sheets from over her, letting the cold prick at her skin through her nightgown. The room was full of the morning light, shining through the gap of her balcony.

“Up, sister!” Viserys threw the sheets aside, he was not the same as the night before. He was no longer angry, it seemed, he was more fascinated, eager.

Two slaves came rushing through the door. Slavery was forbidden in the city of Pentos, but they were slaves all the same. The two more often than not tended to Daenerys, one old and the other young, one silent whilst the other talked endlessly.

The old slave almost pulled Dany from the bed, whilst the young blonde-haired, blue eyed wench gathered the sheets that Viserys had flung. He stood facing outwards from the balcony, looking upon the city with one hand on the hilt of his borrowed sword, the one Illyrio Mopatis had given him to make him seem more kingly.

Though she was soon swept off before she could ask him why she was awoken so early. They filled her bath tub with hot water from the kitchens, and then scented it with fragrant oils before the younger slave pulled the rough cotton tunic from over Dany’s head and helped her into the tub.

It was scolding hot, as she liked it. But they gave Dany little time to embrace herself in the water. Instead, the old woman washed her long silver-pale hair, and then gently combed out the snags, silent all the while. Whilst the girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her about Illyrio’s new trade. Summer silks and milk glass jars, gems of emerald and ruby and sapphire, and so much more. Daenerys said nothing, she already knew that Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he’d never had a friend he wouldn’t cheerfully sell for the right price.

Dany was silent and listened until the girl brought mention of a new arrival, one her brother had been furious about. Dany asked who it was, and then the girl suddenly grew quiet, ignoring her. Be that as it may, she thought, Duncan said I would find out for myself.

Afterwards, once they had cleaned her. The slaves helped her from the bath and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten-silver, and then they dressed her in a gown of deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes, along with the wisps what Magister Illyrio had sent up.

What was this for? She wondered as they slipped gilder slippers onto her feet. She had no one to please today, no one to see. Instead, she had wanted to go into the gardens and read some Valyrian scrolls by the pond, under the cherry trees. Duncan said that things had changed, but if it involved her, surely she would know by now?

Finally, a tiara was fixed in her hair by the old woman. They stood her in front of the silvered looking glass, proud of their work.

I look a princess, Dany thought, she had forgotten what that meant, or never really known. What did it mean now? The thought frightened her all of a sudden, and she felt cold.

Her brother awaited her in the entry hall, clad in black velvet emblazoned with the crimson three-headed dragon of their house. His silver-pale hair, like hers, was tied back by a dragonbone brooch.

Viserys rose from the side of the pool and looked her over critically. “Stand there.” He said. “Turn around. Yes. Good. We must show him what the true blood of the dragon means, the blood of Old Valyria.”

“You look regal, princess.” Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He was such a massive man, but moved with surprising delicacy. Beneath his loose garments of flame-colored silk, roles of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every one of his fingers, and his oiled beard shone like gold. “If only the Khal was here yet, he would be enraptured to see you.”

“She’s too skinny.” Viserys said, his tight hair pulled back seemed to outline the gaunt lines of his face. He rested a hand atop his borrowed sword hilt and said. “How long until Drogo arrives? I grow tired of waiting.”

“Soon, in this moon or the next.”

Dany did not want to be reminded of how they planned to sell her off to a savage, when Illyrio released her hand, she was trembling.

“Come.” Said the Magister, and they followed.

They passed under marbled halls and archways, all different hues. She was not sure where they were going, much to her shock, in the year there she was sure to have seen all the places of Magister Illyrio’s manse. From the highest floor to dim wine cellar.

“He will know he has found you.” Illyrio told Viserys as they walked, Dany let her eyes wonder. She did not know who _he_ was.

“He will. And let him.” Viserys replied. “I will sink his very claim; he is not my blood.”

“Duncan knows the truth.”

That was not the right thing to say. “Duncan is sworn to me! His king! He says whatever _I_ want him to say.”

“I apologize, Your Grace.” Illyrio seemed to smirk, but Viserys did not see it. “But I myself have, some legitimacy to these claims.”

“I piss on his legitimacy; he was borne from a northern slut. A _Stark_ dog! I am my father’s son, not him!”

Illyrio brought his head forward. “You are,” he said. “You are.”

They finally came to a stop in a large, square dining room. In the center was an ash-and-silver table, surrounded by six large chairs, one of which was big enough for three single ones. That was Illyrio’s.

Illyrio bid them to sit, mounting his own large seat and stroking his oiled beard. Viserys sat at his left side, and Daenerys his right. Whether they were sitting to break their fast, she did not know, but she was not hungry.

Soon, through the distant doors at the end of the room came Duncan, but behind him followed another.

He was younger than the rest of the guards that Dany knew, dark-brown of hair, not the bald of the Unsullied that stood sentry on the manse. Dany assumed it was a guard, as a longsword and a dragonbone dagger hung from his belt, clanking as he walked.

As they came closer, Dany could see his hair was freshly washed and his eyes were so grey they bordered on black. Though his face gave nothing away, for what she could see of it, he stared at his feet as he walked.           

He is too young to be a guard, Dany realized, perhaps he was a year or two older than herself, but not at the age of any of the men who stood guard at Illyrio’s manse, eunuchs and sellswords, either bought or living from the coin he gave them.

They came to a stop before the table, Duncan held his chin high and looked at Viserys, his blue hair gleaming in the light.

“Your Grace,” he bowed his head, then turned to Daenerys and said. “My lady.”

Dany wanted to smile, but found she couldn’t. Why was she here?

Duncan stepped back a foot and gestured the other forward. He looked up from his feet and gazed across them. His grey eyes sought Illyrio, for he was not hard to miss, and then Viserys, who bristled. And then herself, when their eyes met, Dany looked away.  She did not want to wake the dragon, as her brother had threatened, and mere gaze could be enough.

Was he the Bastard?

“Know that Illyrio Mopatis pities you for your wound,” Illyrio began. “I hoped that my healer did his best?”

He nodded. Dany looked over his side, he seemed to hover one hand over it, if someone was to suddenly reach out and touch it. She clasped her own hands together under the table. She wanted him to leave, she wanted to be gone herself.

“Your Grace, may I have the honour presenting Jon…” Illyrio brought a stop to his words and waved his massive hands about, gems glimmering. “Your nephew by blood.”

Dany felt a sudden sickness in her stomach.

“It is not an honour.” Viserys replied coldly. “I would rather him be-”

Her brother ceased his words when his eyes met Duncan’s, but she could feel the rage boiling inside him, the fire, the dragon. The longer his mouth closed, the hotter the flame he would spit.  

He was her nephew? It made no sense, she had never seen him before, nor even heard of him, not from Viserys or Duncan or Illyrio, no one.

I have no nephew, nor a father or a mother, I have only Viserys.

“I had expected you earlier, however.” Illyrio began.  “Free of a wound and in the company of my loyal friends, a certain Thoran, yes?”

Jon who-was-her-nephew lifted his chin high and said. “They worked for you?”

His voice was closer to Duncan’s than anyone else, hard and tough, but young. Duncan had seen over thirty namedays, this one had not.

“Yes. I have many friends, and with them many eyes.” Illyrio told him. “And you were easier to see than you hoped, Jon Snow. It took a great deal of effort to bring you here. But any friend of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes. My house is yours, just so. Where your chambers fit to those in Winterfell?” 

Snow was a bastard name, Viserys had told her. And Winterfell the place of Starks, the Usurper’s dogs who had stolen their throne from them.

_The Usurpers pup._

“I left them, in Braavos.” Jon said, his eyes falling downwards.

Braavos, Dany thought, and the house with the red door. Her heart suddenly warmed, and she had to stop herself from smiling.

“Yet you are here all the same.” Illyrio replied. “I have known you far longer than you might expect, yes. The friend of mine told me of your birth, fifteen years past in a Tower of…. Sorrows, I say.”

The Tower of Joy, Dany knew where Rhaegar, her other brother, had left his love as he went to fight for her. Duncan lowered his eyes slowly, resting one hand on the top of the table. Viserys had always spoken fondly of their gallant brother and his northern love, but not today – today she was the _northern slut._

Illyrio smiled before he said. “A boy born in the shadow of a war, motherless and fatherless. To live a lie, no? To never know who he was. You are lucky you are not purple of eye, friend, lest things be much altered.” Illyrio’s tone quietened, almost solemn. “We left you to the north, to your uncle of Stark. Such hope seemed… hopeless, see, we vowed to forget, and leave you to live the life of a bastard boy. Tell me, yes, what has brought that boy here?”

Purple of eye, like herself and Viserys, but he was not like them. He had the tall and slender build, like Viserys did, like her Rhaegar had been said to have and the Targaryen’s before them, but in everything else he was dark.

“I was told the truth…” He lowered his grey eyes. Grey, not violet. They should be violet if he is my blood. “I had to leave, I couldn’t stay in Winterfell. When I knew where you were, I wanted to find...”

Illyrio slapped his fat belly. “Not me? No, Illyrio Mopatis knows this, yes. You came for to see your family, here they are. Viserys Targaryen, brother to your father, yes. And Daenerys Stormborn, sister to your father. You are here for them.”

Here for us? Dany did not know what they could give him. And from what she had seen, Viserys would not offer a single thing to their long lost brother’s son. Everything they owned was Illyrio’s, even the borrowed sword that Viserys carried.

“How do we know the truth of his words?” Viserys asked, his borrowed sword laid across his lap. “He has my brothers blood, but he has never met my brother. No, not as I have. He was raised among wolves, beasts like his mother, the Usurper has sent him!”

“No, no no. This is not true, Your Grace. Illyrio Mopatis knows this. He has not come a spy; I know a spy. My friend across the water has kept words with the lord of Stark for many years, words that would have him killed.”

“I have not come to spy on you!” Jon looked her brother in the eye, hands flat against the table.

No, don’t do that, do not wake the dragon.

“I have not come to fight you.” He stepped back, looking over the rest of them. “I’m here to… to join you… Y-yo-” Jon looked at Duncan, who nodded. And then he said. “Your Grace.”

Dany calmed, a little. But she did not want to be here.  

For a moment there was only silence, then Viserys laughed.

“Do you know what I plan to do, bastard?” Her brother spat. “To gather an army, to cross the narrow sea and retake my throne. To kill the Usurper and his dogs, _all_ of them. _Ned Stark_ kept words with the Spider, did he? But do not think that will save him, the dragon does not forget. Would you like to join me in killing them? To watch as I plant my sword in his cold, icy heart? Or would you shame my brother’s name and try a worthless claim? Would you?”

Jon gave her brother the look she had seen him given all his life, couldn’t he see it? Dany could, but she did not want to think on what it meant. Jon lowered his eyes, his mouth shut and knuckles white.

“As I thought.” Her brother said.

Then, Duncan stepped forward. “He has crossed the narrow sea to find you, are you so blind?” His words echoed around the square dining hall, from pillar to pillar. “Do you think he is a threat? He is your nephew, your blood, Viserys. You remember your brother, you loved him. Would he want you to turn away his son?”

Dany felt a pit of shame in her stomach. Though she had never met Rhaegar, for he had died before she was born, he was gallant, honourable, and noble. Was his son the same? Was it wrong for her to want to him to go away? She wanted to be back in Braavos, in the house of the red door, or outside with the children in tattered rags.

“He is with us now, he _stays._ Wherever we may go.” Duncan spoke sternly, his jaw clenched.  She saw a flash of acceptance in her brother’s eyes, then it was gone. “And… he can be of use to us.” Duncan added, hoping to appease her brother.

Dany saw what that meant. Herself and Viserys were the only two left of their blood, having another prince could mean for alliances, for matters in the kingdoms across the narrow sea.

Duncan placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder and lead him out the square dining hall, each footstep echoing out the silence. Dany looked at her own hands, her nails had dug so far into her palms that they were scratched red.  

Then she felt a grip on her arm, tight and pulling at her gown. Viserys hauled her from her seat and bore his eyes into hers. Dany could see that Illyrio had left, leaving them alone.

“I saw you look at the Stark dog.” He spat in her face, his grip formed a tear in her gown, and so he grabbed her with the other hand. “Do you think I did not see, slut? You do not want to wake the dragon.”

“I didn’t.” Dany gasped, his hands hurt, and tears burned in her eyes. She didn’t, she was too scared to even look.

Suddenly he wrenched her free, sending Dany to fall back onto the cushioned chair.

“It does not matter. He will be gone, soon.” In his eyes a glint returned, something other than content, something far different. “ _Dead_.”

 

**ARYA**

The sheets of her bed were a piled, tangled mess. Much like Arya’s hair, tangled and tousled, stretching over her eyes and her ears. It had been days since she had washed it, or even ragged it clear of its knots with a comb or her hands.

Arya Stark sat atop a bundle of furs, brown and grey and black. The fire in the hearth cracked and spit small orange embers, and she had been looking at it nigh on an hour. Nymeria lied beside her, licking Arya’s hands and then her face and then her hands again, until she stopped to stare into the fire too.

She had not left her chambers all day. Though not by the will of others, not by Father or Mother, nor Septa Mordane or Sansa or Robb or Jory, she stayed because she wanted to – and no one had tried to make her do otherwise.

If they came upon her room she would send them away, she did not want to see them. First her Father, then the stupid Septa and soon even Sansa… Arya gave each one the same reply.  Sansa had always called Jon their bastard brother, that Arya had not forgotten.

But, there were some nights when she would wonder. Nights when the sun had fell slowly and the moon risen, when the castle slept and the fire in her hearth guttered. She would open her door and creep her way through the empty halls of her home, and only when she was as quiet as shadow would she find her brothers room.

Bran was confined to his bed, asleep and still. He had fallen whilst climbing, they said, and Maester Luwin told her mother that he would never walk again. He wanted to be a knight, Arya remembered, like the great Ser Arthur Dayne…. but Ser Arthur Dayne could walk, and now her brother could not.

She had sat and cried beside his bed, her tears soddening the furs of his sleeping skins. He no longer looked like the Bran that Arya knew, all skin and bones with sunken eyes, under the sheets his legs were bent the wrong way around. Arya did not like to look at them, to think on them, for fear she might cry all over again.

Then that night her mother had found her, and as quick Arya wiped her wet cheeks dry Catelyn saw her tears still. And so they spent that night beside his bed, wrapped together in their cloaks until come the morning Arya awoke back in her chambers.

The night she had woken and found her father beside her bed, she asked him about her other brother, where had Jon gone? She still didn’t know.  

He would never tell her where he was, or why he had gone. Was it because of her? She should have sought him out the night of the feast, helped him calm his worries, as he always did her when she was upset. Now he was gone, and she did not know what worried him that night, or where he was or why he had left, she knew nothing.

Though her father had told her that he was not to leave for near another fortnight perhaps, the King had insisted they stay after her brother fell. Arya saw it for the kind gesture that it was, but she also saw the Lannister’s prancing about their halls, Queen Cersei and the Kingslayer, Joffrey and the Hound, she wanted them gone. They walked about Winterfell uncaring, uncaring for the home of her lost brother. Wherever he was, Arya knew that Jon would miss them, as they missed him.

Did he know about Bran?

Nymeria crept from Arya’s side and bundled herself in her lap, a pile of soft fur that Arya ran her hands through. Dapples of her grey bristles slowly grew wet with the tears falling from Arya’s cheeks. Her direwolf had never left her, never to howl with the rest of her littermates, or wander curiously through the castle, Arya knew she would never leave her side. 

Arya wrapped her arms around her, Ghost was gone too, and Jon’s horse, Ranger. She had nothing to even remember him by, nothing at all. And if she ever tried looking for him, in the darkness of the crypts and trees of the godswood, she would always return to her room with no more than an answer than what she had when she left.

Life was unfair, Jon had reminded often reminded her of that. If she was older than her nine namedays then she would know, she would know where her brother was. But she was not older than her nine namedays, she was Arya, Arya Horseface, Arya Underfoot, and a lady despite it all – not a guard that could don themselves in mail and boiled leather, with an iron halfhelm to search the castle at day and at night attend her Father’s meetings.

A burst of knocks sprung from her door, gentle, but fast all the same. Arya wiped her eyes and gripped Nym’s fur tighter.

“Go away!” She said, trying to sound angry.

“Arya,” her father’s voice called out. “Open the door. We need to talk.”

If there was ever usually a voice it was Fat Tom’s, he more often than not stood outside her door – whether it was by gesture or command Arya did not know. She crossed the room and lifted the crossbar. Her Father’s voice seemed more sad than angry. He is alone too, Arya supposed.

She suddenly felt regretful.

Arya walked back to her pile of furs, her father closed the door. His face solemn, pale and long and solemn just like hers, and Jon’s too. She had once asked if that meant she was a bastard, to which her brother had gave her the truth. Reminding her again that life was hardly fair, for Jon to be different to the rest of them.

Eddard sat down beside her, atop the mount of furs she had piled. “The more time you spend in here, the less likely you are to leave.”

Arya slumped her head, unsure what to say. Eddard Stark sighed. “Bran will be fine, Arya. He will wake soon enough.”

“But he won’t be able to use his legs?” Arya blurted, perhaps too quick.

Her father’s gaze met the fire. “No,” he said. “Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon.”

His words seemed to betray his grey eyes, there was seldom a time when he would ever look so upset in front of Arya.

“Can I be part of the king’s council?” She asked, hoping to add light to his eyes. “And build castles?”

“You,” Ned said, he tucked an arm around her and kissed her lightly on the brow, “will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even build castles of their own.”

I don’t want to be a lady, a voice inside her urged, brimming her parted lips. Arya chewed her bottom lip instead, she didn’t want to make her father even more upset.  

He swallowed deeply, and said. “What would your septa say? If is she saw your room in such mess, or you mother?”

“Mother wouldn’t care,” Arya grunted, wiping her nose. She would, just not now. “And I hate Septa Mordane.”

“That’s enough.” Her father said in a hard voice. “The septa is doing no more than is her duty, though the gods have made you a struggle for the old women. It seems an impossible task, making you a lady.”

Then she said it. “I don’t want to be lady.” She didn’t shout it, though.

Eddard sighed, he swallowed deeply and said. “Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. ‘The wolf blood,’ my father used to call it…. Lyanna, she had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch.” Arya could see sadness in his eyes flaring, she could hear it in his voice. “Lyanna, you remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

Lyanna was beautiful, that was not something that was ever said of Arya.

“Jon, I know you think on him.” Her father rubbed her back. “Arya. Jon has gone north to the Night’s Watch, with your uncle Benjen.”

Arya blinked.

“With uncle? But he was here.”

“Benjen had business with me, but now he has made to catch him on the kingsroad. And that is all, Arya, Jon wanted to take the black, to become a brother of that honorable order. He did not want you to lock yourself in your room.”

He looked down at Nymeria, bundled on Arya’s lap. “Does he know about Bran?” He must return when he knows, for us all.

“Benjen will tell him, I suspect he already has.”

But he has not returned.

“And soon we will be leaving too, Arya.” Her father stood from her pile of furs and walked to her window, the pale light of the moon clearing his pale face for her to see. “In the capital, you and Sansa will attend me. It will not be the same.”

Arya Stark knew that she would be leaving with her father, but that did not make it any easier to bear leaving her home.

“And I fear that it is a dark and dangerous place, child.” Ned turned from the window and closed the shutter, “You are too young to be burdened with all my cares. But you are also a Stark of Winterfell. As is your sister, you may be as different as the sun and moon, but the same blood flows through your hearts. You need her, as she needs you… the hard times will soon come, you know our words.”

“Winter is coming.” Arya said.

“And we must protect one another, you and Sansa, Bran and Robb and Rickon, and even Jon and your uncle. Remember the sigil of our House, Arya.”

“The direwolf.” She hugged Nymeria tighter.

“And together will survive the time of the white winds… but not if we fight battles amongst ourselves.” 

“I don’t hate Sansa.” Arya admitted, slowly. “Not really.”

She ducked her head and stared into Nymeria’s golden eyes. Ned crossed the room and sat beside her once more.

“I do not mean to frighten you, Arya, but neither will I lie to you. We are all in sadness, for your brothers. But this willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience… it cannot pass as we go south, it is time to begin growing up.”

“I will.” Arya vowed.

The next morning, when the light of the sun peaked through her shuttered window and Septa Mordane come to wake her, Arya apologized.

Jon had travelled north, to the Wall. It felt better to know where he was than not at all, like before.

But one thing still troubled her.

He never said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and all the kudos and support. I am very very grateful.  
> I love comments, so comment away.


	5. False Faces, False Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV's in this story are not all in chronological order.

**TYRION**

Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content, the book read. It is as strong as steel, yet lighter and more flexible. And, as Tyrion expected, utterly impervious to fire. Bows of dragonbone were greatly prized by the Dothraki, which came as no surprise. Any archer armed with such could easily outrange that of any regular bow.

Tyrion turned the page.

It was his own morbid fascination with dragons that made him read about them. Long dead, they were, but even now, in the cold with the wind flapping the pages as he tried to read the words, he sat alone and read.

When he was a boy he would light fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and pretend they were dragonfire, spewed by his very own winged beast. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy could look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back.

Sometimes he would even imagine his father burning, or his sister. In King’s Landing, on the morn of his sister’s wedding, he had set out to find the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryen’s throne room. King Robert may have replaced them with banners and tapestries, but he searched for them all the same.

Until in a dark cellar, he found them.

He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. For their teeth were long, curving knifes of black diamond, and when he had thrust his torch into the largest one’s mouth, the shadows leaped and danced along the walls. But Tyrion had found them everything but.

“M’lord?”  

An old voice emerged through the wind, bringing an end to his musing.

Tyrion looked up. Yoren stood a few feet away, with his twisted shoulder and sour smell. Even in the darkness, Tyrion could see that his beard was matted and greasy and full of lice. His clothing was old and patched, and seldom even washed. But his two young recruits smelled worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel.

They had joined their parties at the edge of the Wolfswood, behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast. Though despite his sourness, Yoren seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. Tyrion was glad to keep his company as they rode north.

“The food is nearly ready, you would do better to sit by the fire than out here.” Yoren waved an arm towards him, pointing at the tall, gnarled old oak that Tyrion leant himself up against. The trunk was wide and fat, much larger than what a small man needed. And a thicket of branches spread out above him, like a hundred needles. It was his very own barbed throne, but he found that it did nothing but make his arse numb.

Tyrion snorted, wiped his mouth and said. “I have all that I could need, Yoren of the Watch.” He tapped a finger onto the wineskin laid atop his bearskin cloak, inside was a rare sweet amber from the Summer Isles. “And a book, too.” You mustn’t forget your books, perhaps Yoren could do with one. But Tyrion doubted he could read.  

“A book won’t help you,” Yoren said, looking around the at the darkness of the forest, it went on and on and on, until there was nothing but shadows. “Not out here. A sword’s better, I’ve found. Ain’t no word got an edge like a sword.”

I know a few, Tyrion thought.

He had tried to read the last few lines of the brittle page over and over, stating how the golden fields of the Reach – with wheat ripe for harvest – had been set ablaze by the fire of Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion as they were unleashed together. But Tyrion couldn’t find his focus. He sighed and closed the book on a finger.

Yoren walked towards him, each step that he took in the small stream sent water to splash onto the pages. The wind in the air was quiet, nothing but a whistle that shivered the leaves. “What are you reading about?”

“Dragons.” Tyrion replied.

“Dragons,” Yoren repeated the word fervently. “We could do with some at the Wall.”

Tyrion gathered his bearskin. “Mayhaps, it would be warmer.”

The wineskin drifted down the cloak and met the dirt, Yoren knelt to grab it. “Aye, the Wall would weep day and night.”

“Perhaps it would melt.”

The Sworn Brother managed a laugh at that, but all Tyrion could do was keep silent. He had no clue if dragonfire could melt the wall, it had stood for thousands of years.

Yoren passed Tyrion the wineskin and turned on his heel, back over the small stream and onwards to the camp.

“And then all the grumkins and the snarks could cross into the realm, the Other’s atop their ice spiders.” Tyrion measured Yoren’s expression. “Tell me, Yoren. Do you believe in all the tales you were told at your mother’s tit?”

“I’m no ranger, m’lord.” Yoren replied in a hard tone. It was not the question Tyrion had asked, but it seemed as if that was that.  

Silently, Tyrion followed. It was a short walk, over the stream and the many twigs that littered the mud. Yet he found his legs cramping badly, with each he took it worsened, perhaps it was the cold of the north. And his thighs burned and ached from all their riding.  

Yoren offered him a hand as they crossed a fallen branch, scattered from an old oak green looming beside them. Tyrion refused his help. He could make his own way, as he always had.

The shelters of their camp had been thrown up against the broken walls a tumbled down holdfast, abandoned long ago. Tyrion could not blame those who had once housed it, this was no place to live. It was endlessly dark, and even still in the day. The ground was rough underfoot, misshapen roots spreading like tendrils across the soil, and the woven canopy ahead gave little way for light.

A fire burned in the center of their sheltered camp, casting shadows over the stones and moss and roots. Tyrion’s own shadow sprawled thrice the size of him, struck over the horses that were paired together under a shelter. They were well fed and had been watered upon their stop, eighteen there was in total, and now they were all tied together closely with their reins wrapped around a plank buried in the mud. If a horse went stray in the night, it would most certainly not return.

Tyrion’s saddle was left beside a rock, a saddle by his own design – the only way that he could seat a horse without falling off.

Yoren climbed the rock, huffing at his twisted shoulder, and went on at skinning a dead squirrel.

Morec sat the center of their sheltered camp, the dim-witted boy staring mindlessly into the stew that heated over the fire. Tyrion approached him, sighing at the stiffness of his legs with each step he took.

The boy, staring at him with stupid-green eyes, handed Tyrion the ladle. Morec watched his face eagerly to see what he thought. After a taste, Tyrion handed him back the ladle and said. “More pepper.”

The hour was already late. Embers of the fire slowly drifted upwards, never keeping a steady path. Past the deep ivy needles of the pines, they went, and over the tall iron oaks surrounding them. There were no clouds this night, Tyrion observed, and he could blue star in the Ice Dragon, as clear as day.

Tyrion pulled the bearskin further around him, and looked to Benjen Stark.

He had been solemnly silent on their journey, all eighteen days. There was seldom a time where words that left his mouth were not “We stay here for the night,” or “Today we make a full day’s ride,” or “Get the fire going.” On the days that they rode, he was silent atop his black garron, with nothing on his face but the cold. Pale and long. And come the nights, he would sit beside the camp fire and stare into the sky. He never noticed Tyrion watching him.

“My lord,” Tyrion began loudly. “I must ask, why our sudden haste to leave Winterfell?”

Has your time at the Wall made you sour, Tyrion thought, he was already sour enough. “His Grace is not leaving until another week has past; I had thought that we would depart on the same day.”

I would have liked to have spent another fortnight there. Despite the coldness, and the wolves, Winterfell’s library was a place that Tyrion Lannister would have liked to have spent more time in.

Inside were books so old that the parchment was cracking and brittle, he spent a day and a night reading a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. The rest were old Valyrian scrolls, dry and brittle even more so; and in the library was the only ever complete copy of Ayrmidon’s Engines of War, the only one that Tyrion had ever seen.

With the permission of Lord Eddard, he had taken some of the books with him to read through his journey. When the nights came that they made camp to rest, he would read as much he could – Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.

But the hardship of the travelling had begun to take its toll on him, creeping through his skin to make his very bones ache. Each night he would retire to his shelter earlier than the night before, and he would sleep soundly until the morn arrived.

He was not tired now, though, now he was staring at Benjen Stark.

“I have matters of mine own at the Wall,” Benjen said, coldly.  “You could have made your own way, my lord.”  

He must share his brother’s distaste for the Lannister’s. “I know the maps as good as any, but not the way.” Tyrion replied, his legs were feeling better, but now it was his arse again.

Benjen shook his head. “I warn you, Lannister, you’ll find no inns at the Wall.” 

“No doubt you’ll find some place to put me,” Tyrion replied. “As you might have noticed, I’m small.”

What drove Tyrion Lannister to seek the Wall, he could not decide. He had heard so much of it, since he was a stunted boy at Casterly Rock and even as he roamed the halls of the Red Keep as a man grown. Perhaps it was intrigue, or wonder. Perhaps it was only the hope to stand and piss off the edge of the world.

But he would not tell Benjen Stark that.

“I had thought there would be another with us,” Tyrion began, he scratched his fingers across the wineskin. “The Bastard of Winterfell.”

Benjen’s face darkened, he looked away.

“The wild one, what was her name? Ah, Arya.” Tyrion could remember finding her beside the stables, with mud on her elbows and knees. She looked a lady not. “She had told of me of Jon Snow leaving to join the honorable order of the Night’s Watch, he is not among us?”

Stark did not reply, nor did he move. His eyes were pale chips set on the flames, his face was flat and pale and cold. Silence lingered, sweeping through their camp like the wind.

Be that as it may.

Tyrion looked down at the wineskin in his hand, full with the rare amber. A thought rushed to his head, and suddenly he decided that the wine was his weapon.

Each time he made to drink from the wineskin, those around him would stop and stare until he swallowed and returned the stopper. The lot of them were eager to taste wine of a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the brother to the queen. Only Stark did not offer him a gaze, Tyrion found no surprise in that.

Tyrion looked to his right, upwards onto the rock where Yoren had finished skinning his squirrel.

“Here.” Tyrion said, holding up the wineskin. Yoren looked back at him, and for a moment he seemed shocked, but soon the look passed and he took it.

Yoren pulled out the stopper and took a long swig, groaned, smirked and then passed it down to Morec. The boy looked at the wineskin wide-eyed until he too pulled the stopper and drank. Then came the two Lannister guardsmen – who had attended him since Winterfell, as was fit a Lannister -  Rechar, the tallest one, waved the wineskin away and passed it over to Dorrick, who drank the amber gladly.

The two young recruits who had come with Yoren did not get the same honour. Bundled in a darkened corner as they were, sat rustling among themselves.

Dorrick stood from resting atop his pile of fur sleeping skins, his Lannister-crimson cloak drifting behind him. He passed the prisoners on steady feet, offering them nary a glance. When he dropped the wineskin beside Stark, the Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch eyed it carefully.

Does he think it poisoned? Tyrion wondered, amusingly. Then he has watched the rest of his followers die, and mine own escorts.

And me.

Benjen reached for the wineskin and drank. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth and said. “Summerwine,” he put the stopper back in place. “Nothing so sweet. You will have no more of this on the Wall.”

Was he trying to keep him away? “Then perhaps I should not share.” Tyrion said, he pulled his bearskin further around him.

Stark twisted his mouth downwards and chucked the wineskin over the fire pit and Morec’s sandy-blonde head.

Tyrion tried to reach an arm from out the bearskin, but he was too slow, and the bearskin too thick. The wineskin met the dirt beside him, with nothing but a _thud._

He felt their eyes on him as he rose from his rocky seat - the very that made backside numb – and bent over to reach for the wineskin with his small arms. Tyrion Lannister was no stranger to another’s eyes, though. Despite his size amongst others, they seemed to find him more than most.

He wiped the mud from dark crimson, pulled out the stopper and took a long swallow. All the while they were silent and watched, still. Behind him, a horse whickered.

Once he was back on his rock, he wiped his mouth and grinned.

And then Tyrion looked to Yoren again, holding up the wineskin. There was more than enough left, despite how much they had.

They managed to take it around three more times before Morec caught the wineskin, smiled widely and soon found that were was naught but droplets to wet his tongue. Even Yoren had begun to grow mellow, and Benjen Stark’s face was not so cold.

I have given them the taste of summer, Tyrion thought as Morec passed him back the wineskin, and winter comes all around us.

The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese around their night fire. Yoren and Benjen talked from corner to corner, whilst the two Lannister guards sat whispering among themselves as they spooned at their stew.

Tyrion ate in silence.  

When the bowls were cold and empty, with nothing but skids of peppered stew drowning the bottom. Slowly, one by one their company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep. Until there was only Tyrion, Yoren and Stark.

Tyrion placed his bowl down onto the dirt, and cocked his head forward. “Benjen,” he announced, assuming false courtesy. “I had asked you earlier of your nephew’s whereabouts, but you did not seem to hear.”

All the warmth the amber had brought to his stark pale face, fell away at an instant. He stood, his lips tight and eyes narrow, gathered his cloak and retreated to his shelter.

Tyrion had to stop himself from calling him back. He looked upwards to Yoren, who shrugged, groaned and then retreated to his shelter too.

Let him brood, then.

Now it was him and the empty camp, the only sound in his ears was the crack of the fire against the wind; and the slight crunch of mud each time he shifted his feet. Though the ground below their camp was as bare as newborn babe, trampled and sodden. And above the night was littered with stars.

Tyrion cast them a glance, and smiled.

They were yet to reach the Wall, and had many a day and night of each other’s company to get there.

There was something about the Bastard of Winterfell, he pondered as he slipped beneath his sleeping skins, something Stark was not telling him.

It would be slow, and require all the patience and wit he had. But Tyrion would find out eventually, he always did.

**JON**

The marble statue shined.

Jon stood before the sculpture, shaded in the shadow of the painted stomach. He kept one hand resting atop the pommel of his dagger, and with the other he kneaded his wound through the rich black velvet that Magister Illyrio had gifted him.

It was healing more and more each day, and the constant stinging had long since ceased. But that was before Jon thought himself able to practice at swords with Duncan, and he had opened it anew.

Now the scar itched, terribly, and hurt if his fingers scratched too close.

Jon shook his hand away and glanced back up at the statue. It was a likeness of Illyrio himself, he had learned from Duncan as they walked the courtyard; but Jon saw no resemblance to the fat magister that he knew. This was without rolls of sweating flesh bouncing beneath the red, wispy silks that he often donned.

That had been three days past – when he had walked the manse with Duncan -  and today was the seventh that he had seen in total. For five morns had he woken in his own chambers. Extravagant they were, perhaps too much so. But save for the tapestries and Myrish carpets, the styled pillars and cream sheets and the golden chairs, they were always quiet and empty. Not like his smaller chambers at Winterfell, when Arya would come to see him when she woke and he would walk with her to the yards.

But here, not on a single day had he seen the prince and princess.  Not since he first set eyes on them.

They were still here, Duncan told him. Not by words, though, a bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. And Duncan had been so clear for him to see, they were here, and he thought it best that Jon did not seek them out; even after he had pleaded for Jon to stay that day.

And Jon had heeded him. For seven days he had made no efforts to find them, hoping that soon enough they would come to explain. Perhaps even once he would have waited even longer. Once he might have even cried at the fact they kept him apart, but now it only made him angry.

He had not crossed the narrow sea to sit meekly by and wait, to suffer in his own silence. He had to make them _see._

“My lord.”

One of Illyrio’s servants stood beside the pool. Her slender arms craned behind her back, pale and clean. She was blonde of hair and blue of eye, and fair to look upon. Jon had not seen her coming.

“Yes?” He asked, hooking a thumb under his black leather belt.

“Magister Illyrio awaits.” Was all she said, and then she turned and began to cross the courtyard.

Jon followed, the tall statue forgotten. He watched the slave’s collar from behind, the colours seemed to dance as they passed under the cherry trees that stood sentry in the courtyard.

Jon didn’t know what to think about that. There was no honour in keeping slaves. Lord Eddard had told him that, long ago; and once when one of his bannermen had sold slaves Ned had readied Ice, until the craven ran away. But above all slavery was a forbidden act in the Free City of Pentos, yet Magister Illyrio held slaves all the same. And he held Jon.

He had seen the shirtless guards of the main gatehouse, with their pointed helms and shaven faces. Day and night they stood, unmoving with spears in hand. And there was another gate in the courtyard, but it was mostly hidden by ivy.

What would they do should I approach? Would they let me pass the gates?

He had never tried.  

Jon scratched at his neck as he passed under an archway and into the cool air. There was no collar around his neck, his fingers found only his own dry, tanning skin.

There was seldom so much sun in Winterfell, and though the fortress had been veined with hot springs, it was colder still. Here, the sun blazed from dawn till dusk. He sweated through his smallclothes, and once he was changed he sweated once again.

He was raised in the north, in the snows, he was not used to such weather.

Though he had soon started to don lighter garb, thinner fabrics and lighter cloaks. He sweated less because of it.  

Illyrio reclined on a padded couch, gobbling hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. Jewels of many sorts danced along his fingers as he waved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger’s eye and tourmaline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond, and a green pearl. He was sweating too, beads running down his brow.

“Come sit, my friend.” Illyrio swallowed a pepper and waved him over.

Jon sat a large cushioned chair. They were not the same chairs he had seen five days past, in his meeting with Viserys.  These were huge and thick, intended to bear the Magister’s massive buttocks, with long hard legs to support his weight. Jon tried to fit the padded throne as best he could, yet the blood still crept to his face as Illyrio’s pig eyes watched him closely.

“How does your wound fair?” Illyrio asked. “I trust my healer did all that was asked of him.”

The same healer that had attended to him upon his arrival had come to bind him in the yard, with his robe of many hues and scarf of tingling bells. “Better.” Jon said. Upon their first meeting, Illyrio has asked him about his wound. It seemed he was far too concerned with keeping him safe.

“Know that I talked with Duncan, yes. You were forbidden from playing with swords.”

They were not _playing,_ and Duncan would never bow before the magister. Jon wished Ghost was at his side, Illyrio wouldn’t dare to say so then. Without the direwolf, he felt naked. “I asked him…”

“Ah, yes. You are still young. Eager. Five-and-ten.” He spoke like Jon hadn’t already known. “I was young was once. Have you, perchance, seen me in the courtyard?”

A statue, he thought, but he nodded quietly instead.

“Handsome, yes.” He looked down, a sudden shame flashed over his eyes. “Let’s eat.”

Illyrio clapped his hands together, and the serving men came running.

First came a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. Jon glared wide-eyed as the table was filled, a coil turning his stomach. And yet he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of Illyrio’s honour, to have fed him at his table.

And then he was lost.

In Winterfell, he had eaten more than most. Each night when the castle cooks summoned a meal, he would sit with his brothers and sisters in the Great Hall and feast into the night. But it was not like this…

… this was far better than what any of the cooks there could summon.

And so he ate the rest without hesitation. This was not like Winterfell, he thought again as he bit at a honeyed-quail, he had eaten _well_ there. This was more than _well._

As Jon was crunching the last buttered parsnip between his teeth, Illyrio began to speak. His chins were shining with grease, his rotten teeth glistening. “I have words from Westeros,” Illyrio began. “Important words.”

Jon swallowed and reached for his goblet of wine. He felt like a king, feasting on whatever he liked. “About me?”

They would all know by now. Eddard and Arya, Robb and Bran and Rickon and Sansa, Jory and Ser Rodrik Cassel, even the King. He could see the disdain in Lady Catelyn’s face again, and light in the tears of his little Arya. Jon took a long swallow of wine.

“Robert Baratheon _,”_ Illyrio said, carefully. “He has departed from Winterfell with the royal party, this I know. And with him has come Lord Eddard Stark.”

My father? Jon nearly gasped. He wiped his mouth and said. “But, he is Warden of the North. Winterfell is his place.” _A Stark place,_ not mine.

Illyrio grinned. “Warden of the North, yes.” he said. “And Hand of the King.”

Jon closed his eyes.  

Then he shook his head. “I thought,” there had been talk in Winterfell. After the news of Jon Arryn’s death, the position of Hand was in need of fulfilling; and with the king journeying so far north it seemed the answer was clear, but…

… Eddard did not want to go south. Jon had seen only worry his face the night of the welcoming feast, a sudden coldness to his eyes. But he had said nothing.

“Yes?” Illyrio furrowed his brow, waiting for an answer.

Jon shook his head. His lips were wet from wine and pressed tight together.   

Winterfell was Eddard’s place, with the white snows beneath his feet and the grey granite walls surrounding him. Not the pale red stone of King’s Landing and stinking streets, burning in the southern summer. He kept the Old God’s, not the Faith – Eddard would find no heart tree’s in the capital, no gods to answer his prayers.

There were no weirwoods here, either. Jon had checked the garden of Illyrio’s manse, having already known yet still he had looked, hoping to see the blood-red leaves and carved face.

Jon reached for his goblet and drank the rest of the spiced wine, tingling his throat as he swallowed. “What else?” He said slowly.

Illyrio smiled. “With him are his daughters,” Arya, Jon thought sadly, her place was not in the south either. Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty cheeks and tangled hair. But Sansa… she was older by two years, with the Tully colours and her mother’s fair face. She could sew and dance and sing, and write poetry. She could do all the things that Arya could not.

“And a son.”

Jon met his eyes. “Has Robb gone south?”

Illyrio waved his fat fingers, gems glittering. At the motion, the serving men began to rush for the trays of food. He beckoned them to stop. “No, not him. The other, a certain Brandon Stark?”

Jon rested back onto his cushioned throne. Of course Robb stayed in Winterfell. The wine was clouding his thoughts.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Jon knew that as well as all the others. Bran was too young to serve as acting lord on his own, not without a castellan, and Ser Rodrik Cassel most like went with Eddard. But Robb, he was old enough to serve his father; to serve his family and his castle. He will do well as lord.

Jon had seen Robb Stark last in the welcoming feast of Winterfell’s Great Hall, laughing beside the princess. His skin blushed and his blue eyes were glimmering.

Bran had always dreamed of becoming a knight, one of the seven of the Kingsguard. Perhaps he could become a squire whilst he was there, even for one of the Kingsguard themselves. And soon enough he may be the first Stark of the Kingsguard, to act great deeds… but at the moment he was only seven, a boy and nothing more. Seven in a great pit of vipers that was the capital. Jon had seldom heard it spoke in praise by those in Winterfell.   

“The Hand knows not of your whereabouts, as yet.” Illyrio sniffed and wiped his sweating nose. “I should hope he does not learn at all.”

He is the realm’s Hand now, and with the title he was above all but the king himself. If Robert Baratheon was to learn of Jon’s whereabouts, to see who where had gone, who he was with.

If so, then I have doomed them.

“The King mustn’t know,” Jon sat up in his large seat, to loom as tall as he could. “He cannot, we have to make sure of it. We have to.”

Illyrio nodded his head, chins shaking. “Just so. I will give the word, and my friend across the water will make no mention of you through his whispers to the king and his council. Yes. Good.”

Jon swallowed deeply and tried his best to forget about the Stark’s. Their faces… the dreams had long since gone, though it wasn’t the nights when the thoughts of them truly tormented him.  

Illyrio seemed done with the matter, but he suddenly craned his thick neck upwards and said. “But, should you want a message sent, to the Hand? None but his own eyes, of course.”

 _Yes,_ was Jon’s first thought.

 _I’m safe,_ he would say. _And Ghost too. When you see them next, tell the others that I miss them. And that here in the East I will learn wonders with the sword, so Robb might as well take up needlework with the girls and have Mikken melt down his sword for horseshoes._ He would write it all, he thought in a burst, and so much more.

“No.” said Jon stubbornly, staring down into black pit of a wooden soup bowl.

He shoved the thoughts away. Robb would hate him, or perhaps he already did. You turned your back on them all, not just Eddard.   

“More wine?” Illyrio’s voice sounded.

Jon brought his gaze from the bowl, for a moment all he could hear was his own breathing. He nodded his head.

Illyrio was treating him like some honoured guest, like a prince and the highborn boy he never was. In Winterfell’s Great Hall had been seated amongst the squires, he remembered as the servants entered, far away from the royal dais. But here, he sat the head of the table.

The servant placed down the flagon and filled two gilded goblets with wine.

Jon looked away, in silence. To the right of them, a huge arching window showed the dark night stretching over Pentos. There were no clouds to fill the air, and the moon was full and bright and broad. How long had he been eating?  

Behind him, the doors suddenly swung open. Iron clashed against the marble, _booming._ Jon winced slightly, the doors were loud, too loud.

He would have turned to see if not for the huge cushioned chair that blocked his view. Instead he turned back to face Illyrio Mopatis. The magister sat drinking his wine, his golden beard gleaming with oils.

The bald serving man passed him a goblet, now full with wine, and bowed his head. Jon nodded back, he knew the bow as not meant for him, though. Then out of the corner of his eye, Duncan appeared.

His garb was ragged, stained leathers. Perhaps they had once been black, but now any other colour was shed from use. His long blue hair was tied back in a brooch of dragonbone, and his beard all tattered and messy.  

Duncan sighed as he took his seat at Jon’s left hand, shifting himself back onto the large cushions. The seat suited him better, but it was still too large. He reached a gloved hand over the table to grab the flagon of wine.

Perhaps it was Dornish. Theon Greyjoy had once announced Dornish wine whilst they were feasting in Winterfell. The wine he drank now tasted similar on his tongue, but Jon Snow knew nothing about wines.  

Duncan filled a goblet until the wine brimmed the gilded edges, lifted it to his mouth, drank and swallowed deeply. Jon watched in silence, his own wine flat and still and red.

The blue-haired man then pulled a small stained sack from under the table. It was a little larger than his hand, and a dirty stained yellow.  It was wrapped shut with thin rope, so whatever contents would not spill out. Jon assumed it was gold, though, for the bag jingled as Duncan dropped it into Illyrio’s huge hands.

Illyrio looked it over. “Ah, yes. Good.”

For a while they sat in silence. Illyrio stroked his beard and drank his wine and ate the suckling pig, whilst Jon watched Duncan. The blue-haired man drank slowly, only stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Jon brought his gaze back down to his own wine, and found he had no want to drink it. He placed the goblet back onto the table.   

He opened his hands, taunting them open before clasping them close. He had thought long on the words he planned to say, too long. I have not come here for the magister, he told himself before he said. “The prince and the princess, where are they?”

Their eyes grew wide.

But before he could take another breath Illyrio sat up and said. “Who?

“Those I have crossed the narrow sea to find.” Jon stated with a sudden anger in his voice. The wine had made him bold.

“You said that you had eyes watching me in Westeros, you told me that you knew why I was here. Do not ask me who.” Jon brought his eyes to the magister. “You brought me here because of them. You could have taken me back to streets, but you let me stay. And now you keep me away, why?”

Why had they brought them before him, to only tear them away? Why were they staying away from him?

“Plans were already made before you arrived. Ones that I do not have the power to change.” Said Illyrio Mopatis in reply, he looked over to Duncan.

Their shared gaze made Jon want to end his questioning. To seal his mouth shut and run away from it all, like he would in Winterfell whenever Lady Catelyn shot him a gaze. But he was not in Winterfell anymore. “What plans?” He asked them.

“Jon…” Duncan said slowly. “You do not understand.”

“They are here still, I know it.” Jon told them, he was nearly standing from his chair. “In this manse.” 

I have nowhere else to go. No one else.

“And you have found them.” Illyrio said simply. “But they have their own plans, as do you. Ready and prepared, see? There is still much to come for you, my lord, much and more.”

Jon pondered on those words. Until he shook his head. Words are wind, and I have not come here for any of his plans. He had come here for his own reasons.  

“Has Viserys ordered to keep me away?” It was an unsettling thought, but he had not forgotten that first day. He had not crossed the narrow sea to fight them.  

His fingers tapped lazily against the table. Their silence was answer enough.

Jon looked at Duncan, silent and solemn. He stared into the bottom of his empty goblet, turning the handle between his fingers. “Duncan, you told them about Rhaegar, their brother. Viserys knows, is that not enough?”

Duncan placed the cup down and looked at him. But despite his gaze, he remained silent.

“Is it because of him, did Rhaegar _take_ my mother away?” _Did he rape her?_ He finished silently. Jon placed his hands onto the table, his palms hot and sweaty.

Is that why Eddard had taken so long to tell him the truth?

Am I a bastard still?

“No.” Duncan almost leapt to his feet, his gilded goblet clattered over and rolled in a lazy circle.

“No.” He repeated. Jon had known Duncan for but five days, and more often than not that was only from when they walked the manse together, gazing over the many splendors of the house. But never had Jon heard him speak as he did now.

“Robert Baratheon was betrothed to Lyanna, your mother.” He said as he stepped away from the table and towards an arched window.  His voice seemed no longer hard and stubborn, it was quiet instead, almost sad. “You have heard that Robert had loved her, but that is not the truth.”

Duncan stopped before the sill and looked out into the night. “He did not love her; he hardly knew her at all. It was the breaking of the betrothal that sent him wroth, she was meant to be _his._ And no one else’s. When Rhaegar crowned her at the tourney of Harrenhal, it was an insult. And when your father…”

Duncan faced him. “Rhaegar did not take your mother unwillingly, Jon. She… went with him… yet I will not lie to you, his ambitions did no good for the realm. No good for them both.”  

Who are you? Jon thought to ask, but then Illyrio spoke. His face pale with worry. “And now Robert Baratheon is king and the crowned stag banners flop from the Red Keep.” Illyrio clasped his large hands together, gems dancing. “And what a king states is the truth of your realm, lest one’s head be took from their shoulders.”

Jon lowered his head.

“I must take my leave.” He said suddenly, his voice was flat and dry. Jon stood slowly from his chair to find his knees were weak, he gripped the table with one hand and kneaded his wound with the other. It itched again, terribly.

His footsteps echoed in the dining hall as he stepped towards the iron doors, the hall ahead was long and dark and deep. The wine was heavy on his head, perhaps he had drunk too much. But as he walked away from the hall and from magister Illyrio Mopatis and the solemn Duncan, Jon Snow found he no longer cared.

As he stepped under an archway, his thoughts to strayed to Westeros, and back to Winterfell.

He didn’t want to think on that, though; not anymore. I had no name there, I was the motherless-bastard of Lord Eddard Stark.

But in truth, he had no mother still. She was dead, just like his father. There was nothing that could change that. He had gone fourteen years unknowing, and now he had turned away from all of it. From all his half-brothers and sisters, now those here were the only ones he could go to.

Would you like to join me in killing them? He remembered Viserys’ cruel words, and the feel of his knuckles as he clenched them.

He was here now, all the way from Winterfell to Pentos, with no more ships to board or roads to walk or inns to bed down in. So why did he feel so empty?

Ghost waited inside his chambers. He had grown over their stay, and no longer was he the pup that he had found in the snow-covered grass, now he had killed a man.

Jon knelt to run a hand over his white bristles and stare into those deep red eyes. Ghost licked at his face.

“Come.” Jon stood and gestured to the bed. It was much larger to those in Winterfell, and draped with pure white silk instead of the old blue’s and the grey’s and the black’s.

Ghost leapt forward. Before Jon could kick off his boots, the wolf had buried himself at the foot of the bed. His snout tucked into his own furs.

Jon stumbled over to join him. The chamber was dark, the hearth guttered and black. Someone had come to close to the shutters to the balcony whilst he was feasting.

None of it mattered. Once his head crashed with the pillow, he slept.

But no sooner was he awake.

Dusky yellow light leaked through the shutters of his balcony, promising another hot and humid day to make him sweat through his smallclothes. Jon coughed.

Outside, beyond the walls of the manse he could hear the sea brushing against the city. Waves rolling atop waves, and in the distance a bird cawed.

Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he could hear other things out there too. The foreign tongues hailing to one another, some deep and grungy, others high and squeaking. It seemed to make no matter what time you woke; they were always there. All day would they shout, and most of the nights. He could hear the children too, beyond the walls of the manse. Giggling as they played their games in nothing but ragged tatters.

Perhaps I would be out there with them, Jon thought as he flipped the sheets away with a hand, if I had not followed Duncan from the brothel.

Jon scratched his side, tracing his fingers lightly over the reddened skin that rested there. The gash would scar deeply, he knew, but it itched less this morn. He was thankful for that, at least.

He sat for a moment, his bare feet ghosting the cold marble. Ghost was still bundled in his own furs, resting atop the messy white sheets. Jon wished he could rest longer, the tiredness clung to his eyes, but he forced them open. 

His head still hurt all the same though, and he cared little to admit it. Perhaps it would be wiser not to feast with Magister Illyrio again, he had eaten like a king – and a king he was not.

Jon filled the basin from a flagon of water atop the table, washed his face and hands, opened the cedar chest beside his bed and donned a thin set of white woolens, laced up a black jerkin of supple leather, and pulled on a pair of polished boots. The chest, was in all ways, similar to the one he had on the _Wind’s Wave._ The one that had fashioned his very own cabin aboard the ship, a cedar-wood chest filled with his plate and mail and dirks.

And everything from that chest had had gone into the saddle sack since his departure in Braavos, when Aren had led him to the Ragman’s Harbor. He hadn’t seen the saddle sack since Duncan had found him, nor the mail or the steel or the dirks; and all from Winterfell they were. He would need to ask on Duncan to whether he brought it with him to the manse, or if they had left in the narrow streets; still atop the sandy stone.

It was just a sack to them, old and dirty and small. But to Jon, it was so much more.

Perhaps it was best that he forgot it. 

When he turned, Ghost stood facing the closed shutters of the balcony, testing his paws along the cold marble floor. He then turned his long head and looked back at Jon with pleading red eyes.

“Do you take me for your thrall?” Jon asked, he knew what Ghost wanted. Jon crossed the bed to the shutters and pushed them open.

The heat of the morning hit him in the face. He blinked his eyes to cease the dryness of them, the sun was bright and high and blinding. Staring out upon the city of Pentos from the balcony, he could see it all. The square towers, the tiled roofs and the other manse’s, the temples of the red priests, the bay and sea, and all of it shimmering.  

Ghost stepped out on the balcony and sniffed at the morning air, the bristles of his fur swaying softly in the winds that rolled from the sea. Jon knelt to run a hand over his back and smiled, Ghost was the first direwolf to step on the lands of Essos, to ever cross the narrow sea. He had heard no stories on it in the past.

Now Ghost has killed a man too, and saved mine own life. The thought made his wound twitch and scratch, Jon turned from the balcony and closed the cedar chest.

He often wondered where the _Wind’s Wave_ had set its sails since he left them, he could remember the black and crimson flapping in the wind. But he could remember Jacks too, who each night when they gathered had boasted stories of sailing from the Summer Isles to the reaches of the Jade Sea, perhaps that was where they were sailing.

They were hired, Jon reminded himself, they were not your friends. They were paid and told, trained in each word and look and glance. Paid by the very man that fed Jon his meat and mead, or rather wine. The Magister was mayhaps the only reason why Jon was not still searching the streets hopelessly.

But Aren… he was different. Where the others wanted to keep me, he begged to take me away, to follow him.

Yet he was gone too, like all others of his past.

He found Duncan in the hall outside his chambers.

He had a wary look about his face. His blue hair was still unclean, Jon noticed, and he could see the becoming of another colour through strands of beard around his mouth. They looked simply white, but darkened. The brigandine about his chest was the same brown from when Jon had seen it last, and to his feet fell the same cerulean cloak, old but clean.

On his back was the greatsword in all its glory – all the glory that Jon had never seen.

“Duncan.” Jon raised a hand to stop him. He had left Ghost in his chambers, where Magister Illyrio had ordered him confinement; in fear that should the direwolf escape, himself or one of his slaves would be at risk.

Jon knew it would never come to that. “I’m sorry, for how I was last night.” He was a man-grown now, and honorable men had to take responsibility for their own doings. “It was unseemly of me.”

Duncan lifted a gloved hand to his shoulder. Iron studded, Jon cared to notice, and before Duncan could speak he asked. “Where are you going?”

He lowered his hand back down to his side, sighing. “Magister Illyrio has need of me. In the city. I’ll only be gone for the day, should all go well.”

Jon’s eyes went back to the greatsword, he could remember the smoky Valyrian steel of Ice and the ripples that swirled along the steel. Was this greatsword Valyrian too?

Down from Duncan’s belt hung the two crescent daggers, those he had pierced in the throats of those two men. “I’ll go with you.” Jon said, he watched Duncan’s face for a response.

“No.” He replied in a hard voice, the same that he had used in the dining hall the night before. “You are wounded, until then you do not leave this manse.”

His wound hurt no more. Well, not as much, it only itched.

And he walked the manse each day, over and over again. At times, Illyrio’s manse seemed as large as Winterfell. It wasn’t, Jon knew, but he was sure that he had seen all there was to it. The dusky wine cellar beneath the dining hall, dark and crammed with barrels of all the wine that anyone could ever lust for; or even the smaller gardens to the west, there were no cherry trees or painted statues there, but there was silence. 

“It’s healed. I can go with you.” Jon told him. He looked Duncan in the eyes. “I can protect myself.”

“Illyrio wouldn’t want you leaving the manse.”

“I don’t need his permission.” I’m not a slave, he finished silently.

Duncan thought on his words and shook his head, but then he faced him again and said. “You’ll be needing yourself a cloak, then. And bring your wolf with you.”

Jon smiled and turned back into his chambers. From the cedar chest he found a hooded cloak of deep black wool, he clasped it to his shoulders and found Ghost on the balcony, laid atop the pale stone. The wolf followed him eagerly, he too was desperate to be free of the chambers.

He followed Duncan from the hall, his feet falling in silence. They crossed through a pillared gallery and under an archway. Each and every thing about this manse was splashed with splendor, gold in the place of wood, polished marble instead of steel, ruby and amethysts and onyx, archways instead of doors. So much so even the statue centering the courtyard wielded live steel, not stone wrought into a sword.

Ghost followed at his side. Jon kept a hand on his neck, his fingers brushing the white bristles he found there. He was without a sword himself, or even his Valyrian steel dagger. But Ghost had saved his life in the past, where his sword and dagger had failed him.

At the main entrance, where the unmoving guards stood sentry day and night, the two men that had been in the brothel were waiting for them.

They were clad in rough boiled leather, patched and mottled. Such was not suited for this weather, but Jon didn’t question them, he had no need of asking where they were going. Sheathed longswords hung from their belts, their scabbards gilded with gold. Jon watched them as he approached.

“Marys,” Duncan said to the one with the jet colored hair. “Watch this one when we go, closely.”

Jon saw no need in that. He would not try to run from them, if that was what Duncan feared. He knew little and less about the Free City of Pentos, and the streets were but crowded mazes to him, long and serpentine.

“I had thought it just the three of us.” Marys replied in a thick accent, so thick Jon could only just make out the words. He looked at Jon and then his direwolf, his eyes widened. “And what about this thing?”

“It comes too.” Duncan said, then he faced the other.

Duncan passed the smaller man a piece of old parchment, blotched yellow and frayed.

He glanced his small-set eyes over the contents and nodded his head.

Here the twelve-foot brick walls of the manse met and formed a wide arch, shadowing the thick iron gate that loomed before them. Duncan gestured his hand and the guards in their pointed hats unbarred the gate, all in silence. 

The gates groaned as they were pushed outwards, revealing the sloping road before them. A wind swept up to meet Jon’s face, he blinked his eyes away of the dust. Beside him, Ghost shook his fur.

“Come on.” Duncan began his descent, and the rest of them followed.

The path was shorter than what it looked. The pale square buildings soon surrounded them, and Illyrio Mopatis’ manse was lost to the tall wooden stalls and tattered sheets that hung from roof to roof. Sheets of green and red and blue, cloth and wool and silk, and each of them ripped and taut.

“You look lost.” Marys said to him suddenly, he kept Jon’s right side, the longsword on his belt shaking. _Clank, clank, clank._

“I am.” Jon replied.

They had not reached the thick of the streets yet, where thrice a step without smacking another’s shoulder was a rarity, and men and women hailed at another whilst children ran underfoot. But they were fast approaching, Jon did not want to lose them to the crowds.

He stepped beside Duncan, who took long steps in silence, a hardness about his face. “Where are we going?” He asked.

“To the bay,” Duncan replied, Ghost came gliding past them to walk in front. “Keep an eye on your wolf, such a sight is rare enough here.”

“Ghost wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.” Jon said, he was sure of that.

“That was what I feared. I hope not to see any torn hands today, Jon.”

Jon lowered his head. “Ghost, to me.” He said sternly, the direwolf obeyed.

They made the rest of the way in silence, moving through the crowds. Much to his own surprise, Ghost past most unnoticed. There were too many people, he supposed, far too many to notice something brushing against your legs.

When they finally reached the bay, the salt of the sea filled his nostrils. He could see the beginnings of a storm reaching them.

The galleys and trading cogs lined the jetty’s, swaying atop waves, creaking and groaning. Their sails flashed in the sun, blue and red and green. Whilst below them sailors crossed decks, armed with crates and shipments, sweat beading on their brows and shaven heads.

Jon pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, he wouldn’t chance on anyone noticing him. Duncan pointed a gloved finger to a trading cog, bearing ivy sails and said. “There.”

The small man glanced across his parchment with brown pooling eyes, lifted his head and nodded.

Marys gripped Jon by the arm, pulling on the leather of his sleeve. “Stay close. Did Duncan tell you why we come here, yes?”

“No.” Jon replied, his side itched horribly.

The tall man grinned. “You will see, I am sure.”

Jon followed them over the jetty’s, their feet thudding on the wooden planks. He glanced at the sea as they passed, the deep blue-green waters, rippling. A sickness formed in his belly, he looked away.

Once they were at the prow of the cog, the figurehead of a fair maid casting a shadow over them, Duncan brought the hood of cerulean cloak up and over his head. Then Marys did the same, and finally the smaller man, who squeezed the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the waters.

The deck was empty, they found, and full with shipments. He remembered the _Wind’s Wave,_ when each morn or night he would carry the crates from the belly and upwards onto the deck, with Myke and the others helping him. Then Marys pulled him again, and the thought fell away.

Duncan eased the small door of the quarter deck open and nodded them in. Jon followed, behind him Ghost let out a growl.

Before he could pass under the door, Marys turned and blocked the way. “You stay here. Make sure no one enters.” He could see a cabin, shadowy with a single square window. Then the door was slammed shut before he could reply.

Jon turned. Be that as it may, he thought. He had asked Duncan to bring him along, and so he would not question their orders. He knelt down at the door and stroked Ghost’s head, he felt no fear when he was with the wolf.

A crash sounded from inside, then a deep groan, like someone sighing in pain. Jon ignored it. He remembered the body on the sandy stone of the path, laid amongst broken porcelain and splinters. He remembered the silence as he stuck his longsword deep into the man’s chest. He made no sounds, not then.

 _You will see,_ Marys had said, tugging on his sleeve. All he could see now as an empty deck and shipments and sails. Jon scratched the side of his jerkin, under the black cover of his cloak.

Before he could lower his hand, the door swung open.

Jon stumbled and fell onto his back, shouts flashed in his ears.  The blue sky above him, clear of clouds, turned to old black wood.

He felt a boot stamp on his fingers, twisting them. Pain shot through his arm. He tried to groan, to shout but the Ghost leapt over his head, muffling him with soft white fur. 

In the midst of it all, he heard Duncan roar his name.

Then there was a snarl, and a tear and a scream. Jon whirled to his feet, clutching his fingers carefully.

Ghost buried his fangs into his legs, whilst Duncan and Marys held down his arms. It was the captain, Jon realized, who they were holding down. Soiled and screaming.

Jon blinked and wiped his eyes. “Ghost, to me!” He shouted. The direwolf brought free his fangs and moved away, solemn and silent.

The captain continued to scream, the blood pooling around his leg through torn green breeches. Duncan ripped free a rag of cloth and buried it in his open mouth, muffling his cries. Jon closed the cabin door slowly.

“You see?” Maryn faced him, grinning.

A crimson gash shined beside Duncan’s left eye, blood leaked and caked in his blue beard. He pointed to the small man, his breath heavy. “Aerar, grab the chest.”

Aerar obeyed, sheathing his longsword. The chest was in the corner, blackened with shadows. He lifted it with a groan and placed it atop the table.

Then steel flashed, Jon saw the crescent blade of a dagger, shining from the finger of light that poked through the small square window.

Duncan scratched the point along the captain’s sweating neck, until he buried it deep, and _pulled._

The captain gurgled, choking, but Jon did not move his gaze, He had seen worse, he had seen Lord Eddard Stark take the head of many men with his greatsword, he had seen his own skin hanging from bloody tendrils.

He had seen his own blade dig into flesh.

Duncan sheathed his dagger. 

“Now we must return.”

 

**DAENERYS**

“Come, sister.” Viserys turned away from the balcony. His pale lilac eyes flashed with amusement, Dany felt a sudden fright. “The dragon does not forget, you remember the Bastard, do you not?”

There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud. “Yes.” She whispered hesitantly, she did not know whether it was the right answer.

“Good.”

He led her from the empty dining hall, silent and grinning.

She was grateful to be out of her chambers, where of late she had never left, under the watchful eye of her brother. He never told her why, but he never had to. Dany knew why. But all she could do was obey him, she had no hopes to seek the boy out, to wake the dragon.

That she had sworn. He was her brother and her lord, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Usurper. All his lands where theirs, he said like a ritual, he had promised his revenge at their encounter a week past.

And soon he would have his army… but Dany did not want to think about that.

She followed him through a pair of wide black doors, her eyes glanced over the serpents and the sphinxes cut into the iron, curling amongst one another. She thought of Illyrio Mopatis, and the grin that curled on his face when her brother spoke.  Ahead of her, Viserys paced eagerly, his smile wide and frightening.

Dany knew not to where he was leading her. But she did know that if it was fascinating for her brother, it was not often fascinating for her.

The coldness pricked at the skin of her bare arms as they descended from the warmth of the manse. They passed under the largest archway, grand with tall white pillars, and stepped outside. Above, past the leaves of the trees that lined the path she could see the sky was shot with clouds, white and grey, and cold. She hugged her arms together as they traced the steps.

At the bottom, the thick iron gates were stretched open, leaving the Free City of Pentos bare before her eyes. She could see the square towers and pale buildings all gathered around the bay, and the sea that stretched on and on, all the way to Seven Kingdom’s and _their lands._

Below the arch of the brick walls, Unsullied guards stood sentry with their spears, pale shaven faces hard and flat. Dany cast her gaze away from them, they frightened her. But in the Free Cities there was seldom an a magister, archon or dynast without their slave soldiers.

Beside the still eunuchs, passing under a shadow, she saw Duncan. _Her shield,_ Dany couldn’t help but smile. His face was stained with blood, falling from the side of his left eye. In the vivid light poking through the clouds, his eyes seemed more blue than what they truly were, but Dany knew they were like her own. No matter the light made sometimes made them seem.

Viserys stopped before her and held out it his hand, beckoning her to stop.

Marys came too, tall and simple in his roughened leathers. From his belt clanked a sheathed longsword, a gilded scabbard. Aerar walked beside them too. Dany knew all their names.

In his hands was a large chest, blackened yet banded with iron. Dany knew she need not ask to know where they had been, or what they had done.

Since their arrival in Pentos, and when Magister Illyrio took them into his house, Duncan had offered his sword to the merchant. And should the need arise, when Illyrio Mopatis had been cheated in some foul trade, he would send Duncan to go and see them.

And it often ended in blood.

“Look, sister.” Her brother caught her wrist and pulled her forward. She could see them more clearly now, the sand swept in from the gate having gone away.

Then she saw him.

“The Bastard shows himself.”

Her heart quickened. You hid from him, a voice inside her insisted, you don’t want to wake the dragon, whispered another. She sealed her mouth shut, the smile fell away from her face.

When she tried to step away, Viserys pulled her forwards. His fingers dug into her skin, hard until she thought she might bleed.

Dany felt colder now, goose pimples rose on her pale skin as the breeze crept past her. And further onwards they still came, walking tiredly.

What did her brother mean to do? She looked down at the borrowed sword on his hip. He has never killed a man, nor unsheathed that blade in earnest. But it was the Bastard who had gone out with them into the city, to act the deeds she knew all too well, not her brother.

Duncan pressed a hand in front of the bastard, who stared upon them with hard eyes. Grey, not like ours, she tried to remind herself. Dany shrunk backwards, only for her brother to pull her forward again.

“Do not cower before him.” Viserys said in a low voice. “We are dragons.”

Then Duncan’s arm was pushed away, slowly falling to his side; and the boy-was-her-nephew was striding towards them.

She wanted to turn away, to run back to her chambers and bar the doors. To tell him to leave too, to not wake the dragon. But her brothers grip was like iron, why were they here?

When he was upon them, her brother lifted his chin high and said. “I see Illyrio has made you his pet.” 

Behind him, Duncan watched closely. Whilst Aerar and Marys walked away. “I am not his pet.” Jon Snow said sternly, his gloved hands were clenched into fists. He has no weapon, she noticed, no sword or dagger at his belt.

She did not want them to fight. She did not want her brother to get hurt.

“The wolves and the stags and lions are all _pets_ to the dragon.” Viserys inched closer to him. “I shall kill the Usurper myself,” said he had never killed anyone. “as he killed my brother Rhaegar. I shall kill Stark and Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to my father. Not serve them, like you. You mock your father!”

Viserys let go of her hand, she kneaded the red skin there. He did hurt her, sometimes. Jon watched the action closely until a growl met their ears and he looked away.

For a moment she thought the dragon had woken, but there were no more dragons – and Viserys was only a man, her brother.  

Two blood-red orbs came peering at her from behind the bastard’s legs. Deep and smoldering, blazing. Dany’s breath caught in her throat, she tried to gasp but found she could not, nor scream or cry or call for help. She was frozen and silent.

Its coat was as white as snow, the furs bristling in the wind.

It was a wolf.

“Duncan,” her brother mumbled. His voice was dry and quiet, and _scared._ He swallowed it clear, moving away as the wolf padded closer. “KILL IT!”

Duncan stepped closer, for a moment Dany thought he meant to unsheathe the blade on his back, but instead he simply grabbed Jon by the arm, who stared baffled. He moved his grey-gaze towards her. She could feel tears burning her eyes and leaving cold trails down her cheeks.

“Ghost, back! To me!”

The wolf’s jaw snapped shut. It bowed its long head and turned away.

Above, the tall pines shook wildly and their leaves whistled in the wind. The coldness seemed to make the tears freeze on her cheeks, she wiped them away with a hand. Dany had never been so afraid…

… but she was blood of the dragon.  

“You set your beast on me?” Her brother spat, the anger and fire returned to his voice. But he didn’t move any closer. “I am a king!”

Jon Snow shook his head. “No. He is a direwolf, Your Grace.” 

A direwolf.

Dany had never heard of the direwolf before, not from her brother or Duncan, nor the willowy slave girl who told Dany stories whilst she bathed. She had never seen a real wolf before either.

The only wolves she had ever known were the Stark’s of Winterfell, and they were not real wolves.

Duncan ran a hand through his blue hair. “Jon, keep your wolf away.”

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you.” Their nephew said, his voice was lighter than it had been.  He looked her brother in the eyes. “I never meant to.”

Dany didn’t listen, neither did she watch. Her violet eyes were set on the direwolf, the more she gazed the less frightful she felt. Until she couldn’t take her eyes away, and all the fright had left her.

When Ghost met her gaze, a gasp nearly spilled from her mouth. But the direwolf only cocked its head and watched her with narrow crimson eyes, still and silent.

She wanted to reach out a hand and stroke the pale fur. Then she tried to remember the fangs, and the growls. Dany moved her eyes away.

When she lifted her head, Illyrio Mopatis was stepping towards them.

“What is this?” His voice was rasped and breathy, his chins shook wildly as walked. “Oh! Put away your wolf! How did he escape your chambers?”

“I let him. He is not a dog to be locked away.” Jon reached a hand down and scratched behind his ears, his chin high. The direwolf seemed to lean into his touch. “He won’t hurt anybody whilst I’m here.”

Illyrio turned towards them, whilst Duncan swept Jon aside, his direwolf following behind.  “No no,” the magister said desperately. “Why are you here?”

Her brother seethed. “I am a king; I go where I please.”

The magister seemed hurt, he lifted a hand to his head. “Of course, Your Grace. But we had agreed, yes?”

Viserys shook his head. “I agreed to nothing. I will not be confined to a bedchamber whilst the _dog_ is free to go where he likes.” Her brother wrapped his hand around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He will not use it, she knew, so did Illyrio it seemed. “Once my sister is wed to Khal Drogo, I shall have my army. He has nothing!”

Illyrio bowed his head. “Just so.”

Before he could continue, her brother turned to her and said. “We won’t need his whole khalasar, sister.”

The anger was gone from his voice, instead he was amused. “Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. And the realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do.”

He wrapped a hand around her wrist. “And the Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king.”

He turned to look at Illyrio anxiously. “They do, don’t they?”

Magister Illyrio nodded his head. “They are your people, and they love you well.” He gave a massive shrug. “Or so my agents tell me.”

Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the narrow sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio’s words.

“Come.” The Magister beckoned them to follow him. Viserys let go of her wrist, whilst Dany trailed behind him.

 _Once my sister is wed._ All of her brother’s plans were dependent on her marriage, the ten thousand Dothraki screamers and the death of the Usurper, the fall of Lannister and Stark, to take back their lands.

I don’t want to be his queen, she thought, I am blood of the dragon too. But before she could voice her objections, a steady hand gripped her shoulder.

“My lady.” Duncan turned her around.

From the side of his eye, the gash shined red. Blood had leaked and fell to stain his blue beard, caked and dry. “Why did you await us?”

Dany shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was Viserys, I didn’t know.”

She turned to see if her brother had heard, but he was gone, him and the magister. 

“I will have to marry him, won’t I?” She asked as she turned back to Duncan, or I will wake the dragon like never before, and all my brother’s hopes will fail. Her hands were trembling. “No Duncan, please. Please, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”

The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryen’s did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian.

Duncan did not answer her, instead he said. “Return to your chambers, Daenerys, and seek none out.”

Dany knew his voice offered no argument. Without another word she turned on her heel and began climbing the large square steps, her legs were weak and cold. She felt like a child once more, thirteen and all alone with no one to help her; and soon she would have to marry, that she knew, Duncan’s silence was clear enough.

She remembered Ghost, and the direwolf’s narrow red eyes and white fur. She had been afraid at first, afraid of the growls and the long fangs. But the more that she watched the less fearful she became, she was blood of the dragon.

Viserys was scared too, more than she had ever seen him so. They were all pets to the dragon, he had said, but there were no dragons to guard him when the wolf approached. And in those five days since their gathering in the hall, her brother had fumed each night, but never sought out their nephew come the day.

There were no more dragons, they were all dead…

… yet that night, when the sun had fallen to the east and the darkness set over Pentos, Dany dreamt of one.

Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked and clumsy with fear.

She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. Her brother struck her again. She stumbled and fell. "You woke the dragon," he screamed as he began to kick her. "You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon."

Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon.

But no sooner was it gone too, lost to a wisp of scarlet flame. Yet the eyes remained, narrow and still and watching.

Red eyes.

Shining like blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long wait, to which I apologize; but a very long chapter, it was the most difficult one yet surprisingly. Hopefully, it will not take so long next time. The support for this story has been mental, thank you to everyone who left a kudos or a comment, I really appreciate it. The wait was long but in no way is this story abandoned.  
> Thanks.


	6. Bloody Conflict, Cold Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy.

##  **JON**

Ghost was ever his shadow. Silent. Crimson eyes shining.

In the yard, the serving girl had told him, and she called him lord. Each one of Illyrio’s servants called him lord, no matter how many times he told them otherwise. _I am lord of nothing,_ he thought. It seemed to make no matter. They did not serve him; so neither did they listen to him in all things. They served the magister, and Jon guessed that he had ordered them to call him so.

Duncan was indeed in the yard, as the girl promised.

His hair was dyed anew, blue as his cloak and tied back with a pale dragonbone brooch. Jon had never thought to ask why he dyed it so, though it had intrigued him. Duncan was not a man from Tyrosh or Pentos, nor in truth Essos at all. His accent gave him away.

More often than not you would find the man scratching at his chin. _A habit,_ Jon thought. Where his beard had once been - thick and blue and bristly -  now only a shadow of a stubble lingered on his cheeks. The absence of the hair gave a way to the narrowness of his face, the set of his jaw.

He had shaven it the day they returned from the docks, a fortnight past, and not since had Jon seen the mark of it again.

The sun glared down upon them, bright and full and shining. He could feel his silk tunic clinging to his chest as he crossed the yard. He missed the wind and the light rain that had brushed over the city for mere a night. He had forgotten what it was to feel cold.

Though despite the sweat on his brow, he felt strangely resolute. He came upon Duncan as the pointy-hatted guards began to heave open the gates, the iron groaning.

“Illyrio has summoned you?” Jon asked as he came beside him.

The iron gate slowed to a quiet. The eunuchs grabbed their spears and returned to their places set place. _They are themselves made of iron,_ he thought. He was sure they stood their day and night, never to once rest. The gate swept a brush of pale dust into his eyes, he rubbed them clear.

“No.” Duncan replied sternly. Jon tried to measure his face, a bastard noticed things, but he could see nothing on him today. He was about to turn before Ghost suddenly twisted on his legs and set his gaze upon the open gate. A silent snarl left his jaws. Jon heard the sound of horses, hooves stamping on stone. _Riders,_ was his first thought, he remembered hiding beside a stream as riders passed. He gripped the hilt of his dagger.

Although these were not a company of riders, but the two grim sellswords Marys and Aerar. The two of them were mounted atop destriers with a train of riderless horses following behind.  Coursers that were brown and black and sable, amber and blood bay. Jon smiled, it seemed a thousand years since he had ridden Ranger at Winterfell.

“Where did you find these?” He asked as they streamed into the manse, but the stamp of hooves drowned out his words. He spotted Illyrio Mopatis heaving down the steps behind them, with Viserys running at his heels.

“The Dothraki,” Duncan said carefully. He stared Jon in the eyes. His gaze lingered until Jon titled his head. The Dothraki were lost on him. “You don’t know? Very well. You shall found out soon, I am sure.”

The two sellswords led the horses into the yard. All the more dust crept towards his eyes, until he covered them with an arm. Once the last horse had crossed – a bay courser with a long black mane – the eunuchs laid their long spears aside and began to heave the gate shut. Duncan grabbed a pair of reins.

When Jon turned Viserys was upon him. He wore trimmed black velvet emblazoned with the three headed dragon of his House. He wore it proudly, like the very dragon was alive and snarling upon his chest. His tall boots were polished to gleam, and his silver hair brushed lightly against his shoulders.

“Impressive breeds,” The magister announced, his thick arms outspread. His thin red robes hung loosely from his body, in parts sodden with sweat.

Marys approached them with a wide grin about his face. He grinned often, that man. His teeth were straight and oddly clean. “The Khal has taken residence in his manse,” he said before shrugging. “They are yet to fill it with grass and horses.”  

He met them with a grin. _He’s jesting,_ Jon thought. Not one of them returned it.

Marys cleared his throat, his thick brows knotting. Then gestured to the horses. “He gifts us these horses in his thanks!”  

They were all able mounts from the look of it, strong and well-bred. Much like the ones Hullen had bred within the castle walls of Winterfell. If Jon knew anything about the Dothraki, it was that they knew horses better than anyone else could.

“Why did the Dothraki owe us these?” Jon said, facing Duncan’s solemn silence. _He knows,_ Jon thought, _whatever it is._ Jon Snow was no stranger to the Dothraki, of the horselords and their savage ways raiding settlements in the east. But what brought them here? Why the gift of horses?

“Your Grace,” Illyrio turned to Viserys. Hands held together before him. “Inform the princess, I beg. Have the servants ready her gown.”

Viserys Targaryen smirked in his own wild way. He swept his pale eyes over Jon Snow, lilac flashing with amusement, like he’d the throne itself. He nodded his head to Illyrio and turned away, rushing up the thick square steps.

Not a day had passed where Viserys did not gaze upon him with hatred. His uncle offered only frowns and remarks. None of which Jon made to heed. He knew a craven when he saw one.  

“Dragon’s do not cower before dogs,” he had heard him say to Illyrio Mopatis. Yet when Jon saw Viserys, he did not see a dragon.

There were even times when he wanted to set Ghost on him, to watch him quiver. Jon had not missed the fear struck upon his face when Ghost had approached him… but there was no honour in that. Only the boy he was once would think such things.

Viserys Targaryen often talked of revenge, betrayal and Jon’s mother, and his father. If the she-wolf had not tainted Prince Rhaegar at Harrenhal, there would have been no rebellion, and the Mad King would still sit the throne. Does he know of his father’s madness? Jon had thought. He knew the saying as well as any other boy in the Seven Kingdoms. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.

But what did that mean for him?

There were times in Winterfell when he dreamt of finding his mother, with a Stark name and Ice in hand and the glory of the north behind him. So often that he could almost see her face, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

Only now he knew his mother was dead. And he was a thousand leagues away from the rest of them. He saw them only in his dreams.  

Each night when he slept in silk, he woke clad in swirling black armour, plate that was sealed against his skin. The sky was dark with blood and terror. The mud at his feet littered with red gore. He was fighting the Battle of the Trident. Beside the father he had never known. Terror reigned around them; screams and cries, death and blood and broken banners. He slashed heads and arms and legs, man and horse and beast, with a sword alive with light. For every man that he fell, their visor soon shattered and reveal those he loved. Robb and Ned and Arya, Bran and Sansa and even little Rickon. Their eyes haunting him, watching. But his sword would not leave his hand, no more than the dreams would, no matter how much he tried. Until all he could do was scream.

Then he would wake. His skin cold and clammy, shivering in the darkness of his chambers. Ghost would always leap up beside him, and he would go back to sleep with his face pressed into the warm white fur. He had told no one.

Does Arya still think me a brother? He wondered as he watched the horses take their place. Was she ever my sister? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard’s motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy.

And what of Robb? Does he still think me his brother? They had never left each other’s sides. They had trained together every morning since they were old enough to know how. But Robb would one day have Winterfell, that was the shadow that always loomed over them, when Jon would have nothing. He was the son of the enemy.

Duncan had once told him that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, and that was the truth.

He feared what was to become of him. Yet he still remembered what Eddard had told him. There was no shame in fear, and what matters is how we face it.

Whilst Viserys promised death to Baratheon and Lannister and Stark, when he took back the realm they had stolen from him. Jon knew it was not Stark who killed Rhaegar’s children, nor his wife, it was not Stark who sacked the city and killed The Mad King, nor was it Stark who had assaulted Dragonstone and forced them into exile. Stark had lied to his own wife; his children and his king and his vassals, and all of it to protect him, a Targaryen.

But Jon knew he could never go back. He may dream of them, but this was his life now.

Duncan turned to face him. The sun lit his eyes more purple than blue. “Tonight Daenerys will be presented to the Khal,” he said in a strict tone. He threw a saddle over the horses back. His hands sure and experienced. “There will be a feast, and there Viserys will offer his marriage proposal.”

He had not yet exchanged words with the princess, only glances. Though as queer as that seemed, he did not know what to say to her. She often looked sad, solemn, as if she wished to be elsewhere _._ Like a single word would break her. “A marriage proposal to a khal?” He asked.

“Yes. Khal Drogo. He is said to have a hundred thousand men in his khalasar,” Duncan said simply. “A lie, most like. Yet it is still an army for Viserys. One he has the money to buy.”

And he only need sell his own sister, Jon thought bitterly.

His thoughts returned to Daenerys. Her silver hair, pale as her skin, and those deep violet eyes. She always kept them on her toes, those eyes, she was, she was… young. Duncan had named her nigh on four-and-ten.

“This proposal means only a betrothal?” Jon said. “The marriage will not be for years yet?” He tried to imagine selling Sansa to a barbarian, to the wildings beyond the wall. He could never. Shame ran through him at the thought, even after what he had already done to them. Though he doubted Sansa would take notice of his absence.

“Your way is not the way of it here, Jon. Daenerys is a woman-flowered. Should Drogo find her suitable, the marriage will take place within the coming moon.”

 _And I thought your place was to protect her,_ Jon thought. A sellsword took no oaths, Jon thought resentfully. He had not taken Duncan for a sellsword at first. The man spoke and read and wrote like he was highborn, fought like a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but the more Jon watched the more he found the rough edges.

Jon Snow, a bastard, pitied Daenerys Targaryen. He felt the need to do what was right. “And I suppose she has no say in this offer?” He said as they watched the horses being lead to the stables.

Duncan sighed. His eyes lowered for a moment, before he said. “Do half the highborn girls in the Seven Kingdoms ever want their marriages? Ask yourself that, Jon. Did Ned Stark wed the Tully out of love? Did Robert Baratheon wed the Lannister out of his own choice?”

“No,” Jon said sternly. “It’s not the same, not like home.”

Duncan slowly shook his head and said. “It isn’t. But you are not in Westeros anymore, Jon Snow.”

Duncan turned his back on him, slapped the brown ample leather of the saddle, tugged the reins and pulled his courser towards the stables. Leaving Jon alone, with dust in his hair and eyes.

It was still wrong, he knew, but what could he do? Steal her away from this marriage? She knew him no more than she knew this Khal Drogo, she would never leave her brother.

Ghost licked at his hand. Jon looked down and smiled. The horses had gone, their whickering’s lost to the sounds of the city beyond the walls and the wind shaking the leaves above him. Ghost would only unsettle them if he came near. Even the servants of the manse were not yet comfortable with the presence of a direwolf.

He ruffled Ghost’s ears and led him across the courtyard. The dust had been swept away by the wind, the sweat cooled on his brow, and the Unsullied guards back into their usual positions. Unmoving. With narrow eyes and straight faces. He found Illyrio Mopatis stood at the base of the stairs, shouting orders to a servant.

He noticed Jon approach and waved the servant away. “You never told me the princess was to be wed.” Jon said, before the magister could speak.

Illyrio shrugged the matter away.  “You never asked.” He eyed Ghost cautiously, then looked to Jon. “You are shocked? The wedding is not yet; our Drogo must see her first. And like her. The Dothraki make demands and we obey. We have even given the Khal his very own manse, set beside the waters of the bay.”

The Dothraki lived upon their sea, Jon knew. In their houses made of grass and mud. But the magisters were ever courteous to guests of their city.  

And ready with daggers to pierce them should things turn awry.

The magister began to cross the yard, hands pressed by his side. Jon slowly followed. “The Free Cities are always generous with the horselords,” Illyrio told him. “It is not that we fear these barbarians. The Lord of Light would hold our city walls against a million Dothraki, or so the red priests promise…”

Jon had little care for what they promised.

Illyrio stopped and grinned. His teeth were still as rotten as the first time he ever saw them. “Yet why take chances, when their friendship comes so cheap?”

Jon shrugged his shoulders. “I should like to attend the feast, then.”

He expected resistance. The fat magister shook his head. “No, no, you will stay. His Grace will not want you. I can have food and wine readied in your chambers, and a bedwarmer perhaps? The blond-haired wench? Yes. You stay.”

There were times when Jon wondered who the magister truly served. _Does he think I can be bought away_? “No.” Jon said sternly. Perhaps it was Ghost who offered him the courage to say so.

The magisters gaze sharpened. His very black eyes seemed to sweat. He watched him for a moment and said. “The Dothraki are not ones of courtesy. I cannot so easily ensure your safety in their company.”

Illyrio met his eyes and went on, smiling sheepishly. “If you are to attend the feast, it will be so with protection.”

“I don’t need the-”

Illyrio shook his head. “You forget yourself, _Jon_. Know I will not hesitate to have my guards confine you to your chambers, if I must. Have Duncan’s two sellswords. But you go with a guard; or not at all.”

For a moment, he felt like a boy again. Ghost padded forward. It would do him no good to argue, he knew, not truly. He placed a foot before the direwolf, stopping him. “Then I will go with a guard.” He said hesitantly. As the words fell from his mouth, they sounded like they were not his. A bastard never had guards, no more than he had a claim.

 _Illyrio himself knows them as barbarians_ , he thought strangely _, yet he arranged this marriage_. A princess, she was, of House Targaryen, blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror, yet Jon had never once heard of this Drogo.

 _If she weds the horselord,_ he thought as the magister turned away, _she will leave Pentos._

Jon watched the magister ascended the steps, surprisingly elegant despite all the roles of fat that shook as he walked. Heat danced along his brow. He wiped away the sweat with a hand and turned the corner of the courtyard, towards the stables.

Marys Ormos stood beside the wooden posts of the stable, stroking the long brown neck of a horse. He was dressed in thin ivy silks and a long green cloak that swept across the cobbles, dirty from sand and dust.

The horse suddenly leapt in fear. Whinnying and jerking backwards in a sudden fright. Marys turned, his large eyes-wide and shouted. Suddenly the stable erupted into chaos. “Your beast!” He pointed a finger at Ghost. “Take it away!”

The sellsword gripped the horses reins and held him tight. His arms were thick and strong and matted with sweating brown hair, his chest full and muscular, and he was taller by a half than anyone Jon had ever seen. Perhaps even Hodor, the dim-witted stable boy in Winterfell.

“Ghost!” Jon said, he turned and ran, leading the wolf away.

For a moment he was gone, back in Winterfell. Dressed in a quilted leather coat in place of his silk tunic. And Robb stood facing him. They would always train together, since they were big enough to walk.

“I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back. “Well, I’m Florian the Fool.” Or, “I’m the Young Dragon.”

It was gone as quick as it had come. Once Jon found a shaded area, out of sight of the stables he set Ghost down, frowning all the while.

“Ghost, stay.” He said, a hand rubbing over his tall white ears. “Do you understand me? Stay.” The direwolf cocked its head and stared at him.

Jon smiled and brought down his hand. “Good. I’ll come back, just wait for me here.”

He could feel the blood-red eyes on him as he made his way back to the stables. Part of him was pained to leave Ghost behind, alone. Where no one else dared to go near him. His hands were suddenly clammy and sweating, and so he wiped them across his tunic. He would need to change into something else before long.

When he returned the stable had settled, and each of the horses has drifted back into the shadows of their stalls. _Away from the sun,_ he thought. Marys was down on knees, washing his hands in a bucket of dirtied water.

“I’m to join you at the feast tonight.” Jon announced when he was stood before him. Illyrio was right, Duncan’s two sellswords were the best choice for guards. Whenever he paid visit to Duncan’s chambers to jest and drink and laugh, the two of them were there, offering tales of their life as sellswords. Though Aerar was much more reluctant, he spoke of his time in Qohor across different sellsword companies, whilst Marys boasted of his long lost lover.

Marys splashed one arm with water, snorted and then the other. “So you are,” he said in his thick accent.

Jon watched him for a moment before he said. “Magister Illyrio forced the decision-”

He went to go on before he noticed Marys staring back at him blankly. _He cares not for what I have to say. He’s a sellsword. And not just as tall as Hodor_ , Jon thought bitterly _, he’s as simple too._

“Choose a horse, then,” Marys stood suddenly, thrashing his arms clean. “You must need one. The king and his princess will go by palanquin, but not us. Unless you would like to walk down those paths.”

Those paths, Jon hated those paths. 

In the end he tried six of the ten horses that they had brought back with them. All the way from Khal Drogo’s nine-towered manse-by-the-sea. With each one Marys stood by the stables, arms folded and legs crossed, and watched.

The first two were both grey coursers, strong and sure. He could only go as far as the courtyard to test them. There was little and less space to ride a horse in Illyrio Mopatis’ manse. All the while servants gaped at him as they passed, and he even caught the hard-faced eunuchs gazing at him for a moment, before they turned away to stand sentry like pointy-hatted statues.

“You ride good,” Marys said when he was on the fifth horse, a chestnut palfrey. “But I ride gooder.”

I was taught in Winterfell, he almost said to him. Instead he broke a smile. “Gooder? Do you mean better?”

“I will show you, one time.”

He eventually decided on the fourth horse that he had tried, when the sun was setting over the city and oil lamps had been lit to keep the manse alight. The courser was a formidable brown, swift as the wind, he felt like he was riding Ranger once again, galloping around the courtyard of Winterfell. 

When he had taken up the task of changing the saddle – for Dothraki saddles were too flat to be comforting - the nearby servants brushed him away and said. “Let us, my lord. It is an honour.”

Jon knew there was no honour in changing a saddle. But the sun had set and the night overhead, and he had need to change his sweat-stained clothes. “You have my thanks,” he told them as courteously as he could before he ascended the steps into the manse, Ghost back on his heels.

He preferred the nights like these. When the oil maps were lit across the manse, shooting the gardens alight with golden light, the pond and the cherry trees that stood sentinel in the courtyard. All in silence. It reminded him of the solitude of the godswood. He preferred when the halls were warm, like Winterfell’s hot springs, and outside the night air was cool. He could sit upon the balcony of his chambers and listen to the red priests praise their night fires. He could see the servants at their duties, going about with smiles. When all was well.

Then he remembered the magister.

He found himself thinking on the magisters words, his objections. He had stayed his manse for nigh on a moon’s turn, walking the archways, the gardens, he knew it as well as Winterfell.

 _They have their own plan_ s, he had said the night they feasted together _, ready and prepared_. Is this what the magister meant? A wedding? He was sure there were many things Illyrio Mopatis had planned. Plans he did not reveal to others. He had seemed a savior for him, a home, but now Jon could only mistrust every word he spoke.

When he came upon his chambers, he found fresh garb draped out upon his bed. With it all a sword. The tunic was freshly-made woolen, with a splendid scarlet dragon embroidered upon the chest. An exact likeness to Viserys’ own. _He fears me angering Viserys, yet offers this?_

His turned his attention to the sword. Servants had lit the many torches and candles of his chambers, and so the black metal of the scabbard shined, etched with silver and gold. Jon had never seen the sort before. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, soft and supple leather, and pulled the sword free.

The blade hissed through the air. Like the very steel was alive, sharp, menacing. When the torchlight hit both edges they glistened their sharpness. The sound of clashing swords filled his ears. Suddenly the scar on his side itched terribly.

Jon raised the steel to his eyes. _Fresh forged,_ he noticed, _this is from Illyrio._

He looked across his chamber and spotted his own sword, the one he had brought from Winterfell. It was sheathed in hardened brown leather, not the elegant gold or silver. The pommel was an ordinary iron stud, rusting and marked in places. Not like the snarling dragon’s head that had been fashioned onto the pommel of this blade, shining, with crimson garnets set for eyes.

Jon swept the sword back into its ornate sheath and tossed it onto the bed, beside the woolen tunic emblazoned with a dragon. The dragon was not his sigil, he thought stubbornly, nor was the direwolf. _The gods are looking down at me and laughing._

He crossed the chamber and found one of his own tunics. In truth it was not his at all but another gift from Illyrio. But little did it matter what he wore, so long as it was not sweat-stained, tonight he would stay to the shadows. He wrapped his sword belt around his waist and attached his Valyrian steel dagger. He mustn’t forget that, he never knew when he would have need of it.

After he had put on his polished boots, Ghost watching him all the while from his perch upon the bed, he attached a cloak of black wool to his shoulders and made for the courtyard.

The manse seemed empty, or as empty as it could ever be. Empty of servants and sound as he went. Naught but his own shadow kept him company as he descended to the main gate. He had left Ghost within his chambers, the company of a direwolf would do little but insight violence amongst the Dothraki.

When he stepped out into the night the cold air hit him full in the face. Relief swept over him. They were colder unlike the days. The elaborately calved palanquin was already passing under the shadow of the open gates. Whilst behind trailed Duncan and Jon’s two guards, all mounted upon one of the steeds they had brought.

Jon found his own brown courser and caught them further down the road. The loud clanking of the cobbles gave him away. The moon was high over Pentos, and the streets dark. The further they went the narrower the roads became.

“You should have heeded Illyrio’s words,” Duncan said when Jon came trotting beside him. His eyes looked neither blue nor purple, but black. “This is no feast, but a mummer’s farce.”

“I did heed his words,” Jon looked behind him, at Marys and Aerar. “A mummer's farce. And all the same, you are here.” Jon said simply, staring forward at the dozen servants hoisting the palanquin. He pitied them, as he pitied Daenerys Targaryen. But what could he do? Strike the collar from every slave in Pentos?

He brought his eyes back to Duncan, who was silent, brooding. From inside the palanquin Illyrio’s voice boomed. Laughing, jesting. Loud and irritating. 

“You have my men to watch over you,” Duncan said calmly. “But only for tonight. The Dothraki do not stay in one place. Once the wedding is done, Daenerys must needs travel to Vaes Dothrak and present herself to the crones.” He scratched at his bare chin and said. “The dosh khaleen.” 

“You know them well?” Jon said as they turned the corner. The palanquin was too large and the street too narrow, made from buildings too crooked and taverns that thrust forward their gable. They reined their horses as the servants stopped and began to turn the palanquin around.

“There is little to know,” Duncan told him. “Should Daenerys cross the Dothraki Sea, so will her brother. As sure as sunrise.”

But if they had already wed, Viserys had his army. That much they had discussed earlier. “Why not stay here?” Jon asked, just to see what he would say.

“I know the Dothraki settle debts in their own time. It may be months before the Khal is ready to fight for him, perhaps a year. Viserys would not spare that much time. He would not risk losing an army and a sister, and a crown.”

Jon nodded his head, understanding. “Do you think the Dothraki could win him the Iron Throne?” He asked quietly, the palanquin was moving again. He feared the answer, but he had to know what he would say. “If they crossed the narrow sea? They would need a fleet.”

“Only a fool would meet the Dothraki in open battle,” Duncan said as they tapped their knees and began to follow the rest of them. “Perhaps Robert is fool enough. Drunk on his lost glory. I heard the king has grown fat in his throne, did you perchance get a good look of him when he came upon Winterfell?”

Jon nodded his head. Robert Baratheon had looked nothing like a king, and he was a great disappointment to Jon. Eddard had had talked of him often; the peerless Robert, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior in the realm, a giant among princes. Jon had seen only a fat man, red-faced under his beard and sweating through his silks.

Duncan scratched his chin and continued. “But the king has a council, and so each lord would hide behind their castle walls with their armies, waiting. The Dothraki have no siege weapons, nor the knowledge to make them. Whilst the lords manned their walls with men at arms and gathered their stores, the Dothraki would spend their invasion raping and pillaging the smallfolk, and what sort of king would that make Viserys?”

The answer seemed so clear. He felt a boy for even asking.

“Then why the marriage, the alliance?” Jon said in a desperate attempt. The more he understood, the less sense it made. Duncan ignored him and carried trotting forward, his long blue cloak billowing behind, seeming black as midnight sea.

They crossed street after street, lantern after lantern and whorehouse after whorehouse until Khal Drogo’s nine-towered manse loomed over them. Its high brick walls were overgrown with pale ivy. It was as tall as the great keep of Winterfell.  

The palanquin was stopped at the gate. Jon watched as a house guard pulled back the heavy drapes. He had copper colored skin and dark almond shaped eyes, but his face was hairless and he wore the same spiked cap of the Unsullied in Illyrio’s manse.

He eventually waved them through the gates, after growling words with the magister in a rough foreign tongue.

 _The Dothraki tongue._ They finally came to stop at the entrance of the manse. The dozen strong servants carrying the palanquin all seemed to release their breath at once. _Poor fellows,_ he thought as he dropped from his horse. Suddenly a dozen slaves came running from the shadows.

They had collars like the rest, collars of an ordinary bronze. He spotted Daenerys been helped down from the palanquin, whilst Viserys glared the slaves away and followed her. Tall and straight and mean as he ever was.

Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. Slaves escorted them across the entry hall, with Illyrio and the Viserys leading their retinue. The magister held one of his smiles for all to see, whilst Jon knew his own expression was grim. He stayed beside Duncan, watching lights and shadows dance across the cold features of his face.

A mosaic of colored glass spread across the walls. Fire and dragons, the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black lanterns all around them. This was a manse more exquisite than Illyrio’s.

Stood beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming. “Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of his Name,” his voice was sweet and high. “King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos.”

He said nothing about Jon or the rest of them. The eunuch only eyed them as they passed, stammering and blinking. Jon looked away.

The pillared courtyard was overgrown with pale ivy, just like all the walls were. The moonlight from the outside shot the leaves in shades of bone and silver, as the guests drifted below them.

Jon took the time to watch. Many were big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black oiled hair braided and hung with bells. The Dothraki horselords, he realized. Yet among them moved sellswords and smaller men, perhaps from Pentos or Myr or Tyrosh, there was a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords of the Summer Isles with skin as dark as night. Jon stared in wonder.

Until Marys suddenly gripped his arm tightly, urging him backwards. Only then did Jon remember the guards he had been given. “Come,” he said in his gruff voice.

His guard led him to a dais, where a trestle table laid long and empty. Jon sat himself on the end, away from the rest, in the shadows. Duncan settled beside him, the frustration still stark clear upon his face. Servants brought them food and drink, but he did not eat. His hands remained by his side or upon his knees. He regretted his coming, until finally he turned to find Illyrio stood beside Viserys and his sister.

“Those three are Drogo’s bloodriders, there.” Jon heard him say. He followed his fat finger as it pointed. “By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind is Ser Jorah Mormont.”

 _Mormont_?

Jon could scarcely believe it. What was a Mormont of Bear Island doing here? In Pentos?

Then he suddenly remembered, as Illyrio went on to explain. “The Usurper wanted his head. Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night’s Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel.”

 _An oathbreaker_ , Jon thought stubbornly. He felt like Eddard’s honour was shamed, and an even more shameful need to protect it.

“He’s wrong,” Jon said suddenly, the words had leapt from his mouth, the anger in his heart.

Only Duncan heard, though, as the man turned to face him with narrow eyes.

Jon pointed a finger and said. “Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. He’s here.”

Duncan glanced over his shoulder, as the knight was exchanging words with a copper skinned man. “Yes. You’ll find more Westerosi knights here than you would expect. What of it?”

 _An outlaw_ , he wanted to say. When he caught word of Ice coming to greet him he abandoned his home and his House, yet now he still wears the likeness of a sigil upon his tunic _._ The black bear stood on two legs. “A northerner. One of Eddard’s bannermen. He was-”

“The last I heard of him was when he won the tourney at Lannisport, against Jaime Lannister,” Duncan spoke fervently. He lifted his cup to his lips and drank hard.

More men filled his gaze, until he could no longer see Ser Jorah Mormont. Perhaps that was best. He had promised silence for tonight. Jon turned back to the magister, only to find that he was gone. Instead he saw Viserys standing beside his sister, whispering into her hair, his fingers clamped around her arm like iron shackles. Digging.

The music was too loud, the talking and the laughing and feasting. He could not hear what they were saying. But he could see where they were staring.

The man was a head taller than the tallest man in the room. His skin was the colour of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings. Illyrio stood before him, his head bowed, ever graceful. He had never seemed so small.

The Khal, Jon realized. Suddenly his face seemed harder, crueler, but he looked all a warrior. His braid was black as midnight and slick with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs.

Jon was not familiar with the meaning of their braids. Until he turned and saw that Duncan had been watching him. “When the Dothraki are defeated in combat,” he said, “they cut off their braids in disgrace, so all will know their shame.” Jon stared back at him, whilst Duncan carried on watching. “The Khal has never known defeat.”

He looked towards the Khal once again. _A man without defeat is a man without fear._  

Then he saw the princess, in the shadows, with tears welling in her eyes. Viserys stood beside her still, his face angered and hand still wrapped tight around her skin.

He had promised not to anger Viserys, he had promised. His honour was his word. But what was his honour if he did nothing?

Jon turned his gaze, for mere a moment, readying himself to stand, his fists clenching. But when he looked again the Khal was upon them, with Illyrio Mopatis stood beside him.

Daenerys Targaryen was smiling.

 

##  THE SULLEN SWORD

His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, yanking furiously. _Fight_ , a voice said, like a song in his head. Steel sang. A flash in the air. And all of a sudden he was being hauled over the small oaken trestle table.

Darkness clouded him, like a cloth suddenly thrown over his eyes. It had been dark before, the cabin they were in, but not black. Not nothing.

Pain shot through his leg, blood smeared his face. Marys felt his nose break as he crashed against the wooden wall. He fell through parchments and ink pots, through a squat wooden chair and the jars of tourmaline that had decorated the table and the shelves. His head spun wildly.

Then it all stilled. The blood on face fell steadily against the leather of his jerkin, dripping from his brow, mixed with the song of waves from beyond the window. His nose was numb and his eyes were open. His sword still in hand. _Fight,_ he reminded himself.

He stood to the sound of a scream as Aerar buried his sword into a man’s chest, further along the cabin. Three of them were coming at him, through the open door, and he was alone. _He needs me._ He had already slit the throat of the man who had thrown him, he saw. _A craven move,_ Marys thought, _to throw me. And a stupid one at that._ He steadied himself upon the black brick wall and gathered his breath.

Then he leapt. Over the broken table, his feet cracking the oak, shattering the ruined tourmaline. _May the red god protect me._ He forgot his pain and thrust his sword into the back of a sellsword. Blood leapt towards him as he dug further, like the breath of a dragon, reddening his blade. The hooded man gasped his last breath, his sword clattering to the floor.

Marys wretched his sword free with a groan, and the man dropped to the swaying oak of the ship. To join the dead. Though there was little time for Marys to watch, for as sudden as a storm another sword was on him, the sellsword bursting through the broken cabin door with anger in his deep black eyes. Black like burning pits. The smell of blood filled his broken nose.

The man thrust his sword at him, groaning, aiming for his chest. Marys parried the strike. Steel scraped against steel. Their steel, or was it that behind him? He couldn’t know. He couldn’t turn, though he knew Aerar fought beside him.  

Pain stabbed at his legs once again. Blood ran further down his brow, dripping down over his eye to scatter red upon his chin. His back met the wall, there was nowhere else for him to go. Not now. The sellsword moved closer and closer. _He is weary._ His longsword gleamed in the light, grinning Marys in the face.

Then wood and steel flew through the air and an axe buried itself in his opponent’s side, pierced through leather and wool and skin. _Aerar’s axe,_ he realized. Relief flooded him _._ Marys dodged a lazy strike, gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and thrust.

The sellsword had fallen to his knees in shock, as blood crept from the axe buried in his side, as his longsword laid bare before him. _As he died._ He stared up to meet his eyes, and Marys’ blade pierced easily the dark skin of his neck. Ripping through flesh. The wound seemed to whimper, but he would not stop. Marys pushed further, both hands upon the hilt, until he could no more. The man chocked desperately. Blood slid from his neck like a river of red. His beady eyes shut and he fell to join the rest of them.

Marys pulled his sword free, the taste of blood in his mouth.

Silence filled the air, the floor littered with four dead and the grave of broken parchment and ornament. This was a merchant’s ship; the galley was three levels itself.  Aerar approached him, careful not to step on the bodies of the dead. He wiped the blood from his face. “Two escaped.” He said in a tired voice.

Marys sniffed in air, and in reply his nose screamed in pain. He had forgotten it was broken. One moment the pain was so near, and then it was not. “Then they are lost,” Marys replied in Bastard Valyrian, “We have done all that was ordered.”

He stared across the captain’s cabin of the ship. The wooden trestle table flipped upon its side, the chair broken in three pieces, the pots littered across the floor like water. All blood-stained.

Aerar pulled his hand axe free of the body, the sound of steel pulled from flesh forced a wince from his lips. “Until those two are dead,” the small man said as he wiped his axe across a scrap of cloth, “we are not done. They cannot go far from the bay, I wounded one of them. We should find them before the ceremony’s end.”

 _Before Duncan finds us._ The words went unspoken, but Marys knew what he meant. 

Their captain was beyond the walls of Pentos, where forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves had raised their palaces of woven grass. Where Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo under the open sky.

And though he was forgiving, they did not seek to disappoint him.

Aerar sheathed his hand axe and stepped carefully over the fallen sellsword, his feet moving aside from the blood gathering upon the wood. For he often polished his boots till they gleamed, and himself even more often than that. He was too clean for sellsword, Marys thought. His head was shaved but for the thick bristly line that ran down the center, the brown hair soon turning into a short braid that leant upon his back. He had never before seen it any different.

Marys followed him out of the room, his longsword held out beside him. _Perhaps the men had not gone far at all,_ he feared.  Mistakes like those could get you killed.

They descended a well of close-kept stairs, moving in a spiral. Such was a rarity in a galley, he knew, but this was the _Lady’s Bloom. A merchant’s ship, grand and isolated from the regular stock._ For that he was thankful, for the ship was empty but for the few of them. Even the sounds of their footsteps echoed through the ship, through empty cabins and polished oaks. _We have butchered it, bled it._

The rhythm of their footsteps broke in his ears when their boots met cloth. White cloth from hammocks. Hammocks that were split from their straps and strewn across the floor. The room was as black as pitch, with the only the distant light from atop the stairwell shooting narrow streaks before them. Else wise he would not be able to see at all.

Marys took careful steps forward, his gaze shifting. Weary. He had always been weary of the dark, since he was a child in narrow streets of Pentos. And so was Aerar at that, it seemed, for even in the blackness he could sense the same fear lingering between them. _There’s nothing here but hammocks and ourselves,_ he assured himself, but the blackness carried on enveloping him.

A shadow shifted.

Marys spun on his heels. Waves lapped against the boat from beneath them. His broken nose was full with blood. It was not a shadow that moved, but the shadows themselves. The shadow of the deck. Suddenly the room felt darker, colder. The silence screamed in his ears, louder than a thousand swords all meeting at once.

Then a swirling shadow went from black to gray to white, unfurling in a glistening twist, like the blade of a arakh. A claw.

A claw made of steel.

It leapt for his leg. And all of a sudden the pain returned, though even worse than before. _It’s a sword,_ he thought, _and it has cut me._ Only then did he remember that he held his own in his right hand. Blood welled upon his leg, through sliced leather. He went to move, but it was too late. Another steel shadow came towards him, to his face. An iron-studded fist slammed him in the jaw, and suddenly his head was laid against a hammock.

 _My nose and now my jaw,_ he thought. He fingered the broken skin there and felt nothing.

Aerar leaped past him, a charge of glistening steel and determination. The room was clearer now, the blackness swept away, he could see. The steel shadows were two men, two sellswords clad in iron and sailors leather. _They had not left the ship,_ he thought.

His leg screamed in agony, jolting him. Blood from his brow fell to join the blood from his jaw. He sniffed it all through a broken nose as he leant up. Aerar was alone, defending him, the clashing of their swords rang true in his ears. _He’s a better fighter than me,_ Marys thought to himself, he reached for his sword and grasped the hilt with deft hands.

He was such a large man, and strong, even Duncan had said so. Why had he fallen? Why was he suddenly so weak?

As he pressed to lift himself from the floor, arms weak, leg throbbing, vision dazed by blood, a scream met his ears. A soft spray of blood suddenly leapt across his face, like warm rain. _Aerar,_ he thought, if they had taken him then he was next. But then a weight fell upon his legs, crushing them even further. The lifeless body of a man in iron and leather, he saw, blood gushing from a wound where his nose had been.

Marys gripped the body by the shoulders and pulled, but his arms were weak and the body did not move easily. He felt as if his jaw hung loosely by a thread, and found himself staring at the bloodied gauntlet upon the man’s hand. _Curse him,_ he thought.

Then another hand grasped the gauntlet, black sodden leather, and the body was pulled away. Though his legs felt no different for it. Aerar lay the sellsword under a white hammock, the least courtesy he could offer, and came to kneel before him, face bloody, a wound stretching across his brow.

“Your face,” Aerar said, his voice unsure. His eyes scanning. _And curse you too,_ Marys thought, though he could not voice it aloud. They shared a moment of silence, with blood and death all around them, and then he felt hands under his shoulders and suddenly he was standing.

“The horses are in the bay,” he said as they hobbled towards a row of stairs leading into the night air. The white hammocks that had been stretched upon the floor were stained red. The bodies of the men buried beneath them. _Someone will find them,_ he thought, _and Illyrio’s name will protect us._

This was supposed to be a simple deal of debts, and not bloody. Though Marys imagined Illyrio would be satisfied either way. 

He dropped his head, watching his feet hobble deftly across the floor. His breeches were split and blooded and muddy, though his boots had only suffered a stain.

Aerar was struggling with his weight. “We’re nearly there,” he said suddenly, through gasps, “hold on.” Marys could not think how long it had been. The night air hit him in the face, and his wounds burst aflame.

Yet he saw lantern light through watery eyes. The pain stung him. The bay was mostly empty though, that he knew from the sounds of creaking cogs and lapping waves meeting his ears, and not the sound of sailors. Sailors would only rouse suspicion.

Their horses had been bound at the entrance of the secluded bay, not the very Bay of Pentos. He knew they were the close when he heard the sounds of them whinnying. Aerar carried him over, his breath heavy, Marys was not a small man to move. He would have need to thank him when he could. He gripped the reins of his own mount - Fleet, he had named him -  until the leather burned against his palm. The weight on his legs made his eyes water even more so, until Aerar hefted him upwards onto the saddle.

The horse was restless, the thick of smell of blood reaped only fear. He tried to straighten himself, to offer more control, but found he could only slant or scream. Aerar cut the bounding rope and the horse went wild. The stars swept in a circle above him, the ground rose up to kiss him, and all went black.

For a moment, the pain fell away like water and he glowed in his red god’s blessed flames. As if he was watching over himself from another’s eyes. Floating in a blazing darkness. Marys lived days old and time’s long past, of Vaera and sharp knives and burning blood. Screams that shook him.

He woke to the sound of voices.

Fire streamed into his eyes. Blinding him. _Light,_ he thought as he murmured through cracked lips, _torchlight._ Was he still dreaming?

“You’re awake,” a voice said from beside him, a familiar voice. Those like he had heard in his dream. Suddenly the torchlight dimmed, he blinked and blinked and blinked again, and over his head loomed the boy, Jon Snow.  

He stared down at him with clueless grey eyes. His face half etched with concern and half wonder. His attire was an embroidered black jerkin, stiff of collar, that stuck to his frame like sweat. _The wedding,_ he remembered. Marys wanted to growl at him, to say anything, but his own mouth could not summon the words. All that left his lips was a whimper.

The boy turned and made for the door. They had set him upon a trestle table, he saw, over furs and leather stained in crimson. Marys looked down at his body, his jerkin had been ripped from him, as were his breeches, with the only the sodden remains of his underclothes stretched across his skin.

He could remember falling from astride his horse, his head hitting the stone. The thought made him laugh, well, in his mind’s eye. He had grown atop the cobbles of this city, he would be damned if they were things that killed him.

He found a black poultice stretched long across his leg, dressed in white bandages stained with blood. _A shadow,_ he remembered, _a moving shadow made of steel._ The wound suddenly itched in pain.

Then he looked all around him. The chambers were marble and grand, with paintings and gold, shining from the torchlight. _The Illyrio sort,_ he thought, he knew where he was.

The iron door suddenly screamed open. He turned his head to see Duncan and Aerar approaching him. His captain came as if eager to see if his wounds were real, whilst Aerar lingered behind. Marys tried to raise; he had never thought himself a man of weakness, but instead he only gasped.

Duncan settled beside him, looking him up and down with those narrow violet eyes. “How do you feel?” He asked, his voice was surprisingly calm.

Marys flashed his eyes at Aerar, and mumbled. He could not speak for himself. “He was caught across the jaw,” Aerar said, leaning against the white marble wall. His brow was marked with a bloody scar. “The healer said it would be a while before he could speak again.” 

Duncan was silent for a moment before he said. “Should I be thankful or disappointed?”

Marys tried to offer a grin.

“But he still listens well-enough,” Duncan smiled, staring between both of them. “So hear me now. Daenerys has wed the horselord, and come the morn they will leave the city.”

He had warmed them of this. Once the princess had wed Drogo, they would put Pentos behind them. The Dothraki stayed no homes, planted no trees, every man knew that, they raped and pillaged and wrought only terror. This little girl had become their queen.

 _He knows that as well as I do,_ Marys thought as his captain went on.  

“When they break camp, we will follow. Drogo will offer us his hospitality.” Duncan nodded his head in knowing and said. “Viserys will not wait for them to return to him, he will go to Vaes Dothraki, go wherever they take him. He’s desperate. That I will use to sway the magister of my reasons.”

 _Duncan is sworn to The Beggar King_ , Marys thought. Aerar stepped towards them, his arms folded. “Sway him? If Viserys goes Illyrio knows you would follow. There’s no need-”

Duncan shook his head. “But I am not leaving because of Viserys.” He interrupted. His eyes were wide with the seriousness of his words. “Not truly. The boy, Jon, he needs protection more so than Viserys. I will not leave him here. He must come with them.”

Aerar unfolded his arms, leaning back against the wall. “And does Jon know of this?” The sellsword shrugged and stared his captain in the eye. “Viserys has no love for him, nor the girl I would think. What better does it do him?”

A familiar sadness returned to Duncan’s eyes, one Marys was not a stranger too, for he often noticed it when the captain thought himself alone. It was a stare too long, a glance too solemn. _He is a man of a terrible past,_ he reflected, _a man with secrets._

“Illyrio would have him stay,” Duncan said slowly. “I’ve heard his whispers, though he thinks me unaware. Words of a boat waiting at the Rhoyne and the city of Volantis, ready to depart once the Dothraki are clear of these walls. There is nothing in Volantis for that boy. He comes with me.”

They stared at one another in a knowing silence, a silence that spoke treacherous words. _What is there left to do?_

Marys reached for his mouth. Finding two of his front teeth gone. _Toothless, they will call me._ His jaw was still numb, the skin felt taut and broken to the touch. _And all the maidens will turn their head in disgust._

The candle guttered and blackness met his eyes.

Marys mumbled in agreement.

## DAENERYS

“Khaleesi?”

Dany turned in her saddle. _Jhiqui,_ she thought as the servant approached her. _No. This one is Irri._ They were all hers now, best she did not forget their names. She had never thought herself forgetful, yet there was so much she could not remember.

She had spent her wedding ceremony atop a mound of mud, a place of high honour, watching her brother’s face, watching Duncan whisper to Jon Snow. That was before she was given the three dragon eggs, old as eons and white and black and green, from then on her thoughts were unchanging. 

Dany looked back into the sky. The day had dawned bright and golden over Pentos, yet the wind still twisted her silver hair in tousles over her face. Her brother had awoken her with harsh words and a desperate tone, whilst her lord husband had gathered his bloodriders to watch the slaves dismantle their tents of strewn grass, for soon they would be leaving the city and crossing the Dothraki Sea.

Irri handed her a beautiful sandsilk cloak. Part of her bride gifts, she knew. “Thank you,” Dany said, but the almond-eyed servant only stared flatly and turned away. She was still a stranger to their ways. Only the day before had they feasted on steaming joints of meat and Dothraki blood pies, a seething sea of Dothraki writhing beneath her as she was wed to their Khal. She was their queen and they shared no common language, not one of them spoke the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, and Dothraki was incomprehensible to Dany.

She tugged the cloak around her shoulders. “Jhiqui will teach you their tongue, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah Mormont said from beside her, as if he could sense her thoughts.

On the night her marriage was sealed to Khal Drogo, Jorah had sworn his sword to her brother, who had accepted eagerly. He was never reluctant to gain more swords of his own, Viserys. The knight had been their constant companion ever since.

Yet it was another knight they meant to seek out, and one far closer to Dany’s heart. Duncan had agreed to meet them come the morn’s early hours, yet when he had not shown panic had struck her, and Viserys too.

Her brother appeared from around her tent, already mounted atop a pale palfrey. It certainly _paled_ when beside her silver, Dany saw, but she did not dare tell her brother that. All her life Viserys had called her a princess, but not until she rode her silver did she ever feel like one.

“That oaf was to meet us here,” her brother said with malice in his voice. _Duncan is not an oaf,_ she thought defensively, but Dany only kept her gaze upon the walls of the city before her, her lips sealed. Her brother had his army, yet he still insisted to travel with them to Vaes Dothrak. Daenerys did not think that Illyrio would agree to that.

Viserys growled and dug his heels, his horse whickering. He had crossed half the ridge before they made to follow. _He will not leave without him,_ Dany knew, despite all the poison he seethes. _if I commanded the Dothraki to wait, would they listen?_

Ser Jorah rode steadily beside her upon his brown courser. His face stern and back straight. He was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly that there were none left for his head. Her thighs stung as she rode in the saddle. The blood of the dragon, she had called herself, she could not let fear taint her.

She had almost forgotten about her _khas_ until she turned to the sound of horses. Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo, following close behind her. She remembered their names for their fearsome faces. Upon their mounts they were all as fluid as centaurs. The khal had given them to her for protection, a _ko_ to watch over her as the khalasar moved east.

The tall pale walls of the Pentos were ripe with guards, tall black spears poking above the ramparts. _They fear the Dothraki,_ Dany thought as they rode through the streets, so _they fear me too._ No one had ever feared Daenerys Targaryen before, nor The Beggar King as they called her brother on the streets. But now she was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki to them, and not the girl she was.

They crossed through the gates in a horde and flooded past the market square. All those gathered before them moved aside. Men and women and children, crushing one another against the narrow walls enclosed by rows of buildings. _Are we so frightening?_

They were watching her. Each one of them. Dany would have told her brother to stop if she dared to, so she could look upon their faces and calm them, but her brother was riding ahead of her and the gruff men of her khas behind. She could not stop.

By the time they reached the manse of Magister Illyrio, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and weep.

“We dare not stay here long,” Jorah said as they reined into the courtyard of the manse. If not for the eunuch guards lining the walls, they were alone. “A Dothraki trail is hard to miss, Khaleesi. Yet it is a great dishonor to not depart with the khal.”

His words frightened her. She looked across her three Dothraki guards, still-faced with whips and daggers and arakhs hanging from their belts. “Then we shall not take long,” she said.

“Your Grace!” A voice echoed in the wind, deep and booming.

Illyrio Mopatis stood at the height of the steps ahead of them. His garb one of velvet robes rather than thin trails of red silk he often adorned. He had not yet oiled his beard, she saw, so instead it shined a dull copper rather than gold. He descended the steps gracefully, smiling a mouthful of rotten teeth.

“My king,” he bowed to her brother, high on his horse. Viserys twisted his features and snorted. “Where is Duncan?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

Illyrio seemed rather shocked at that. Daenerys did not believe his expression. She hardly believed any of the words he uttered. “Here, Your Grace. Yes. I believe you have come to join him.” He waved a languid hand in the air. “As I have told you, all is settled. I have had the Khaleesi’s things loaded in carts. The khal has promised you a crown, and soon you shall have it.”

Her brother shook his head. But the magister went on. “Have the hospitality of my manse, Your Grace. For as long as you require,” Illyrio looked at her _khas._ “Until the khal has led his procession across the east and presented his bride to the crones of the dosh khaleen. Yes, you have waited most of your life, great king. What is another few months, another few years?”

Ser Jorah cantered forward. Dany watched him, silent. “I counsel patience, Your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A less-”

“Guard your tongue, Mormont.” Her brother bristled. “Or I’ll have it out. I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not beg, nor will I wait.”

Jorah Mormont lowered his eyes respectively, whilst Viserys lifted his chin high. Dany knew he had made his decision. “I will stay with Drogo until the debt is paid, until I have the crown I was promised.” His pale lilac eyes narrowed. He was careful to use the Common Tongue, even so she found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain they had not overheard. “And if he tries to cheat me, he will learn to his sorrow what it means to wake the dragon.”  

Her brother laid a hand on his borrowed sword, whilst Illyrio only stared back at him. Blinking wildly.  

“Then I wish you good fortune,” the magister said, smiling a false smile.

 _He will not beg,_ Dany thought, _but I will not be alone._ The thought warmed her. Even so if her brother was foul company, he was company all the same. _Duncan will come too,_ she remembered. A year this manse had been their home, their sanctuary from the Usurper’s hired knives, and now they were leaving. For a moment there was only the sound of the wind brushing against her ears, all the rest was silence.

Until she heard horses.

Duncan galloped into the courtyard upon his grey courser. His long cerulean cloak stretched out behind him, flapping in the wind. He was dressed to ride, to leave with them. Slung from his saddle was his greatsword, sheathed in leather. Dany let a smile warm her face.

His two sellswords followed close behind, Silent and Sullen as Dany called them. Sullen’s face was red and scarred, his jaw a mess of broken skin as if a single touch would break the flesh away. Even his brow was bloody, his posture slouched. She did not want to think on what had happened to him. Behind them all followed Jon Snow, who met her eyes as soon as she found him.

Dany could not stare long, she looked away and found crimson instead. A narrow red gaze belonging to the quiet white beast that prowled beside them. She felt as if she was still in a dream, a dream of howls and fire and blood. A chill crept along her skin. Dany turned to her brother.

Viserys had a gaze hard as stone. He watched them closely as they approached, his jaw set and a gloved hand still lingering upon the hilt of his sword. He had donned black this morn, Dany had noticed, _and black is his mood._

But it was the magister she watched, for his face was beaten-red, even in the shade of the trees. Flushed. Like he was sweating under the weight of his own barbed-beard. Anger flashed in his beady eyes as Duncan reined beside them. Suddenly his smile was forgotten, Dany noticed, and the wrinkles on his face glared back at her like the rot of his teeth. He was shocked, truly, for the first time in the year she had known him.

He clenched his fat fists and settled his gaze upon her nephew.

“Viserys,” Duncan said as he came beside them, though he did not spare them a look. His eyes were trained on Illyrio. “Wait for me at the gates.”

Her brother looked between them, his lilac eyes flashing with amusement and anger. He will wake the dragon. Dany’s heart quickened in her chest. _I am not a khaleesi,_ she thought, _I am scared little girl._ Tears formed behind her eyes, waiting to break her.

But Viserys suddenly turned away, he listened, and she twisted her silver to follow, quick as she could. Their eyes watched her from behind. She wanted to keep going. To ride through the wide iron gates, through the cobbled streets of the city, over the sea and to the house with the red door. To a home.

She stopped beside her brother, under the shadow of the wide arch of stone that loomed over the gateway. The pathway into the courtyard had always been lined with tall pines of green leaves, but never before had they seemed so tall as they did now, so loud and frightening. Duncan had ordered Jon to wait for him too, she found, the bastard sat from his horse beside them staring at the Unsullied guards.

Illyrio had taken a step towards Duncan, who loomed high over him. Dany tried to make out what they were saying, but all she could hear was the wind. 

Perhaps she could order one of her khas to listen for her, to be her ears. _They would not order them away,_ Dany thought, _but neither would the Dothraki understand._ The khal himself uttered only a few words of the Bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, she doubted the rest of them could at all.

Instead she found herself thinking of her dragon eggs. Scales black as night, dancing with scarlet ripples and swirls. She had placed them back into their huge cedar chest, encased in velvets and damasks. She had watched as slaves loaded them onto a wagon, where they would stay as they crossed the Dothraki Sea.

Moments passed before she turned to face her brother, and she gathered the courage to speak. “What are they doing?” Dany asked in a timid voice. Illyrio Mopatis took a step closer to Duncan, her protector. Yet she still did not know what they were saying.

Viserys ignored her, he swept a glance at Jon and turned back. The taut lines of his face clenched.  He knew but he would not tell her. Dany saw Jorah Mormont lower his head. “Whatever it is,” he said solemnly. “They best hurry, the Dothraki will not wait long.”

 _They will wait for me_ , Dany thought, _and I will not leave without Duncan._ She could not. Who else would protect her as he did? Her men watched her sternly with their dark brown eyes. Causing doubt to prick at her mind.

Illyrio took several steps back, graceful even in anger. She saw that it had ended. Dany let herself breathe again. Duncan suddenly yanked the reins of his horse and spun wildly, his thin blue cloak twisting and churning like a dragon’s tail. Silent and Sullen followed him closely.  

“Now we go,” Duncan said when he was upon them. His face flushed with anger. He had dyed his hair the night before, she noticed, for there would be no Tyroshi dye on the way to Vaes Dothrak. Perhaps she would see the true colour of his hair once again. 

“Khaleesi,” one of her men said from behind. Dany could not tell which one, for each one of them sounded the same. Gruff and stern and thick, but she knew it was a question. They were waiting.

Oh, she thought. No one had ever waited for her before, she did not dare look at her brother. Instead Daenerys turned her silver. Her chin high, her violet eyes stern, sure in her saddle. She looked down upon the city from the manse and urged her silver forward.

The rest them followed without hesitation. Duncan upon his grey horse, Silent and Sullen and the three men of her khas, and even Jon Snow and his white wolf.

All of them but her brother.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Please leave a comment as always!


	7. The Horsemen

## JON

Jon’s eyes swept over the plain, a vast expanse of tall grass stretching all the way to the horizon, rippling like waves when the wind blew. The air was thick with the smell of earth and horse and sweat. Jon swore he had seen these grasses in the north once, as he passed from Winterfell and down the White Knife, though admittedly not quite half as tall. _The memories fade more with each day._

He stopped a moment upon his horse to take it all in. The others rode past him without a glance. _I may never see this way again_ , he thought, half-frightened and half-relieved. There in the sun, Jon couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever set a foot back on the soil of Westeros. Only the gods knew, but there were no gods here. None that Jon believed in.

It had been three whole moons since they had put the high walls of Pentos behind their heels, heading east towards Vaes Dothrak. By the first week, endless riding had him sweating to the bone. His thighs were chafed raw, and his legs cramped so much he could hardly walk upon a day’s end. 

Though it had not been long before his body had gotten used to it, the pain was fading from his memory even now. A ‘green boy’ _,_ Marys had called him, the loose red skin around his chin quivering with each word. _That was what an iron fist to the mouth did for you._ Yet the man had made the long journey through the Dothraki Sea once before in his life, and regaled Jon with mismatched tales of the lands around them as they passed.

Jon could not deny the beauty of it all. He had only ever known Winterfell in his life, its grey granite walls, the godswood. Even White Harbor had been astounding to him. The far east, though, he knew only in stories. Tales and learnings from old books in Winterfell’s library tower.

Here, at the head of Drogo’s khalasar, he had seen it all first hand. They had passed terraced farms and rolling hills in Norvos, townsfolk staring down at them from white stucco walls. He had seen tree trunks as wide as city gates in the Forest of Qohor, where they had ridden under a sky of golden leaves for half a moon. Men spoke of spotted tigers in that wood, and great elk, Jon had even joined a hunt or two, but to no end.

The further they rode, the lesser the land became, in Jon’s eyes. They had been following a narrow path made of mud for near a month, with nothing but tall green grass all around them and the warm sun bearing down from above.

Staring back down the long-twisted path, he heard Viserys scoff aloud. Duncan was in his ear, most like telling him should he prattle any longer, the Dothraki were like to take his tongue. Viserys was miserable out here. He should have never come. No matter how long they travelled, or how far, his uncle did not cease his scorn, not even for those he meant to fight for him.

Jon sighed and turned. Daenerys Targaryen was mounted further up the ridge, Ser Jorah at her side. With the blinding sun ahead, she was no more than a shadowed shape of a rider upon a horse… but Jon knew Daenerys was not the same girl who had married Drogo beyond the walls of Pentos, with tears in her eyes.

Her city silks had long since been forgotten, her shyness and her tears boiled away by the sun. Upon her silver filly, Daenerys was clad in roughspun Dothraki riding leathers, dirtied from dust. Her feet hung bare in the short stirrups of her saddle, black from where she had walked in the mud, and her hair shone with the thick scented oil that riders often used to slick their braids.

He kicked his horse into a trot, smiling, then suddenly heard his name called through the wind. Was it Viserys? When Jon yanked the reins and his horse almost reared, he heard Marys shout “Careful, foolish boy!” as he rode towards him.

Jon sighed. After near two months amongst the Dothraki, Jon had taken service in Dany’s khas. “The more swords about her, the better,” Duncan had said once when they were alone, and the khas were her own swords. Duncan had even ordered that his own men do the same, for caution was no matter the sellsword took easily, and every one of them knew that he held no real trust in Drogo; nor the Dothraki for that matter. Neither did Jon. Even the warriors of her ko did not serve her in truth, but her husband.

In Winterfell, he had slept beside Robb, Bran and Rickon. In the khas, it was Rakharo, Aggo and Jhogo, each one more Dothraki than the other. By the day they rode together, and shared a fire and ate together. Duty, he thought… yet it was hard to distrust the men who were as close to you as brothers.

“Forgot what Viserys says.” Duncan had told him. “You will serve her well. Watch for her. And… they respect you for the wolf, but amongst these, you must earn yourself a name. Show your strength when you can. A man gets only what he earns,” Jon had nodded his head and said, “I will, I promise,” with the memory of tears in Dany’s eyes, in the dark hall of Khal Drogo’s manse. I am fifteen, a man grown, he had thought, these here do not know me for a bastard.

Marys was in a tunic of silk, but the sleeves had been cut away and tattered at the shoulders. “You almost fell,” he said with a mocking edge to his words. Jon did not meet his gaze, embarrassed, and turned his horse to ride beside him. 

A moment passed, until Marys asked, “Where is Ghost?” It was not for the first time, too. Since he had been attacked in the Bay of Pentos, the night Daenerys was wed, Ghost had suddenly unnerved him.

“Somewhere in the grass, I would say.” Jon replied, hiding the worry in his voice. The sun bore down on them in a blaze, hot and sticky. He wiped a blanket of sweat from his brow.

Ghost was never close when they were riding, and would oft be gone for days in a row before he returned. There was game in these lands, Marys had said, your wolf will want his share of it. No matter how long they were gone, though, or how far they travelled, Ghost always returned.

Marys grinned, the scarred red skin around his mouth twitching. “And yet you ride alone?”

Jon looked forward, unmoving. He didn't mind being alone. Further up the ridge, Jhiqui suddenly laughed aloud. Marys saw another opportunity there, it seemed.

He laughed. “Ah, one of them?” He pointed at the three of them riding ahead, and settled his finger on the one on the far left. “Doreah? That’s her name, I think. You should ask Viserys, he took her a few times.”

Jon gritted her teeth, his ears turning red. Jon was all too familiar with their names, and their purpose. Irri would teach Daenerys the ways of a Dothraki rider, Jhiqui the tongue, and Doreah…

“You should not say that. It is Illyrio at fault.” I pity her, Jon thought with shame. Illyrio was a terrible man, how had he never seen that? When Doreah had told him her name, beside a high blue waterfall, he had blurted, “That’s pretty,” remembering Sansa had told him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help her, in truth, but he had thought courtesy would be pleasing.

It seemed foolish now. “That is true, poor girl.” Marys said, his words slurred. He had spoken differently ever since he had been recovered enough to speak at all. The tall sellsword looked over his shoulder and gestured at the riders of the ko with a slight nod.

“What about these men?” He said. “Jhogo is of your age.”

Jon knew better than to stare. “I can hardly understand what they are saying,” he said.

“That is because you do not follow my instructions!”

Jon found he was smiling, until he lifted his eyes and saw Jorah Mormont riding down the hill towards them, and a cloud of dust churning in the wind where Daenerys had been.

“Stop,” the knight said in a gruff voice that carried through the air, “tell them to stop. Your Khaleesi commands it.”

Jon frowned, his horse groaning to a halt. They both watched the exile ride by, eyes narrow. Ser Jorah Mormont should not have been the one bellowing commands. _He left his lordship on Bear Island,_ Jon thought, _when he fled in fear._

 _You fled too,_ a voice insisted. Jon turned to stare down the muddy path.

Voices filled the air as a line of forty thousand sweating horses were ordered to stop. Stallions and coursers, palfreys and mules dragging carts, all groaning as one. From the hill, the only cart Jon could see was a great thing draped in silks the colour of mud. Inside it, he knew, were three dragon’s eggs.

He had never in his life thought he would ever see one. The last dragon had perished under the reign of King Aegon the Third. Every man, woman and child in the Seven Kingdoms knew that, for it was Aegon the Conqueror’s dragons that had bent the realm under Targaryen rule, and dragons that had sealed it for more than a century.

The king was given the name Dragonbane, after the final beast died in King’s Landing, no larger than a dog. When he was a boy, Jon had scorned the dead king like the others. Every boy wanted his own dragon. Yet he had never been more thankful for such a thing in his life when he spotted Viserys beside the cart, shouting shrill commands at Jorah Mormont.

_Give him dragonflame, and the realm would burn._

“How much is a dragon’s egg worth?” Jon asked, “even in stone, like those?”

Marys shrugged. “Why, a large army.”

The white form of Ghost suddenly pounced from the grasses and into the path. Jon’s horse leapt backwards on nervous legs. His fur was stained with dust and mud, his jaw marred red from a kill. In a dash, Jon had leapt from the saddle, smiling and wrapping his arms around him. _Ghost is only getting bigger,_ he thought as he ruffled his big white ears with a hand _._

“Your wolf knows when to appear,” Marys said nervously, as men shouted at one another down the hill. Jon stood and unfastened the waterskin from his saddle, uncapping it with his teeth. _Warm,_ he thought as he wet his dry mouth _, it would do._

He looked down the path, but could hardly see far when knelt. “What are they saying?” He asked.

Marys had concern in his voice. “Viserys is causing a stir. That fool knight should know better.” He looked down at Jon from his horse, “Wait here.”  

Then he kicked his mount into a trot and galloped down the hill, wind snapping the green cloak at his back. Ghost had the rest of the water, lapping it up eagerly. Jon felt trouble brewing. He stood and fastened the waterskin back onto the saddle, and by the time he was mounted again, Viserys was bounding past him in a blur of fury.

His horse’s great hooves kicked up chunks of mud, his pale cheeks flustered red in anger. Jon watched with wide eyes, as Ghost leapt aside to spare himself a foot. The wolf snarled, but the horse nor rider did falter, the courser giving Ghost a whip of his tail.

Jon watched the rest of his ascent, until nothing but dust remained. Down the hill, men still quarreled. Jorah reined up before him, his face twisted as if in pain. “Daenerys…” he said slowly.

 _Wait here,_ Marys had said, but suddenly Jon was riding up the hill himself, after his uncle. He passed the handmaidens in a flash. _They don’t know what he will do._

If the journey had done him good in anything, that was riding. Every stamp of his horse was like thunder, every second that passed the more he remembered. _The manse by the sea, her tears in the dark._ He could still see them there in the blackened corridor, as real as the reins in his hands.

 _You will serve her well._ Daenerys had given them all commands to stop, but Viserys was the king, and the king did not listen to commands. The descent was steep, rocky and dangerous, and made his teeth rattle so much it hurt, but Jon was not scared. In an instant, the plains suddenly swallowed him up. Green grass stalking ahead, behind, either side. He kept riding until he realized he had no clue where either of them were, and in his boldness, the Dothraki Sea had forsaken him.  

Jon Snow closed his eyes and listened. The wind seemed to speak, all around him, long and shrill and loud. _Shhhhhhh_ , the grass whispered. Like the godswood at Winterfell, the heartree with its deep eyes red with dried sap. He could hear the distant voices of the khas, the bellows of orders that were lost to the wind. All was still, yet soon enough the buzz of the grass was lost on him, and there was only silence.

He would not find them like this. _Is it a prize you seek, bastard?_ A voice in his head asked, Jon ignored it. _It’s your duty now._ It was useless. How far could they have gotten? He dug his heels and charged through the grass.  

Then he stopped. The wind’s voice was louder, sharper, as if it had turned to stone. Left, it beckoned him to look, standing in the stirrups. But the grass was so damned tall, and endless. 

 _You!_ It roared.

Jon dropped from the saddle, his boots molding into the thick black soil _._ He shook his head and unfastened his sword from the saddlebags, his hands clumsy, fast, misplaced. _Do nothing that will get you killed,_ Duncan had told him.

He didn’t know what he would do if he found them, if he found him hurting her. Rakharo and the others did not what Viserys was like, not truthfully, they had not been in Khal Drogo’s manse… suddenly he was running.

The voice was louder.

_To me?_

He could only just hear it. All around him grass fell, only to spring up once again when he had passed.

_Look at you!_

His breath was quick and steady, his feet sure as he bounded through the grass. A great green stalk came to slap him in the face, and a tangle of a dozen others suddenly whipped against his eyes. He kept going.

That was when he found them.

“Do you hear me?” Viserys had his hand under her vest, towering above her. The pain twisted her face, clear as daylight. For all his urgency, Jon nearly stumbled over his own feet as he rushed to a stop. He had hoped there was a small chance he was wrong… the wind grew still around them. _Do something, you bloody bastard._

She was the first to notice him. Jon took a stride forward, his hands clenched into fists.

“Do you hear me?” Viserys made her wince again.

Before Jon could reach them, Dany shoved Viserys away, hard.

Her brother stumbled. His eyes incredulous, full of disbelief, rage twisted in his features. Even Jon almost stopped, but his legs saved him, moving forward, kicking up mud. The two chips of lilac saw him, before widening with terror.

Crack.

The air made a sound like thunder. His ears shook and screamed. The last thing Jon saw before he fell on his back was a slender snake wrapping itself around Viserys’s throat. Then all he could see was the great pale sky, as his ears filled with his uncle’s choking.

A dozen riders had burst through the tall blades of grass, Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo upon their tall steeds, Jorah Mormont and Duncan among them. It was as if they had all been hiding behind the grass, waiting. Jon got to his feet, gasping, and watched Viserys sprawl in the mud, as the whip’s coil dug painfully into his throat. The Dothraki riders hooted at him.

Jon followed the rope to the rider. Jhogo sat upon his horse, arm and whip outstretched, watching as if he caught some great beast by the scuff of its neck. He rasped Daenerys a question, one that fell deaf on Jon’s ears.

“Jhogo asks if you would have him dead, Khaleesi,” Irri, the young handmaiden, said. Jon had not seen her, but by then the rest of her khas had arrived, spreading out around them.

“No,” he heard Dany’s voice from behind him. “No.”

Jon turned to look at her. She met his eyes, her breath quick and face flushed. He did not object. Further onwards, one of the others barked out a comment, and the Dothraki laughed.

“Quaro thinks you should take an ear to teach him respect.” The handmaiden looked between them.

 _This will be enough,_ Jon thought. He stared at each one of them, saw Duncan’s face marred with pity and shame. _He was hurting her,_ he thought, and yet Jon couldn’t help pity him too. Kings should not be pitied.

“Tell them I do not wish him harmed,” Daenerys said. Jon watched Duncan close his eyes.

The handmaiden repeated the words in Dothraki. Jhogo gave a pull of the whip, yanking Viserys around like a puppet on a string, just as Ghost emerged through the grass.

“I warned him what would happen, my lady,” Jorah Mormont said, like the _loyal_ man he was. “I told him to stay on the ridge.” Words are wind. _You were not here quick enough,_ Jon thought, _but neither was I._

“I know you did,” Dany replied. Viserys was red-faced and sobbing, laid on the ground sucking in air. A thin line of blood under his chin marked where the whip had cut deep. Still, Jon had not moved. None of them had.  

“Take his horse,” the order came suddenly. Jon had thought he had imagined it, until Viserys gaped at his sister, his skin paling. _She is not the same girl._ “Let my brother walk behind us back to the khalasar. Let everyone see him as he is.”

_Not at all._

When he turned, her violet eyes were on him, waiting, demanding. The eyes of a Khaleesi. Jon froze. _Does she mean for me to take his horse_? He glanced at Aggo, Jhogo coiling his whip, and each one of them were watching him too, unmoving.

His hand went to grasp the hilt of his sword, for reassurance, for something to hold, but Jon found nothing there but empty air. _My sword,_ he thought suddenly. Dany’s eyes crossed him from head to heel. She was still waiting. Jon turned.   

He had taken no more than three steps towards the tall brown courser before Viserys screamed. “No!” He turned to Jorah Mormont, to Duncan, careful to use the Common Tongue, words the horsemen would not understand. “Stop him, Mormont. Knight! Hurt her. I command it, your king! Kill him! Kill these Dothraki dogs and teach her!”

He was out of breath from his own clamoring. Jon stopped before he could reach the horse to watch Mormont’s face, fingers twitching. _Draw your sword, craven,_ a part of him insisted, _show your steel. Go on._ The old knight looked between them, Dany and Jon in their sandsilk leathers and Viserys in his mail. “He shall walk, Khaleesi.” He said.

Jon let out a breath. He had forgotten that if Jorah drew his sword, he had no steel to protect himself with. He opened his hand and closed it before grabbing hold of the reins of Viserys’ horse. 

At first the courser whickered at him, jerking backwards into the grass. Jon didn’t much fancy chasing a horse through that maze of rising stalks. He gave the reins another pull, and the horse came easily. _Ghost,_ he realized, as the direwolf suddenly burst past him, most horses were unnerved at his presence.

Viserys did not move. He was sat cross-legged in the dirt, silent. His sister remounted her silver mare and began to turn away. As Jon crossed, his two lilac-eyes followed him, cold and full of poison. _He will stay sat here until we are gone,_ he knew.

It was all over as quick as it had begun. With the sable horse in tow, Jon went off to find his own as the others went forward. _She has probably fled,_ he thought, yet no sooner did Jon find her grazing amongst the grasses.

Once he was mounted again, he thought of stalking back through the grass to find his sword. The others were growing smaller in the distance, and countless other Dothraki riders and slaves came trailing past him as he stopped beside the path. _It’s just a sword,_ he thought, but was it truly? He had taken it all the way from Winterfell, kept it at his belt at White Harbor, Pentos…

“Jon,” much to his surprise, Duncan hadn’t gone on with the others. The sellsword stared at him from across the path. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Jon said, too quickly. He dragged his eyes away from the stalks, dug his heels and galloped onwards.

It was a short ride to catch them again.

 

## DAENERYS

She crossed the hill from her tent with a small smile on her lips.

It was a smile that brought Dany pause, though. _I should not be smiling._ Khal Rhae Mhar, they had called her brother the day she had left him to walk at the back of the khalasar, the Sorefoot King. By the time Viserys came limping back among them, every man, woman, and child in the camp knew him for a walker. _There are no secrets in the khalasar._ The day afterwards, her husband offered him a place in the carts, and from then they called him Khal Rhaggat: the Cart King.

 _Each was better than the Beggar King,_ she supposed, and the names were no more than he deserved after he had attacked her. But all the same, Dany found herself defending him. She had not even told him that the carts were only for the eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old, when he had taken it as a means of apology.

 _Your brother could do with a bit of shame,_ Ser Jorah had said when she had begged him not to say, _Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake._ Dany had not been able to believe his words, but the more she thought on them, seeing her brother writhe and cry in the grass, the more they rang with truth.

Viserys would never take them home, not even with the army that her husband gave him. Dany felt that she had always known that, but she had always known he was her only brother too… and so she had pleaded to Drogo many a night to give him his horse back, and his place at the head of the khalasar. It had taken long, and all the pillow tricks that Doreah had taught her, but her sun-and-stars had finally relented.

She would find her khas below the ridge, she knew, in the shadow of a great big hill that loomed beside their tents. Dany wrapped her bare arms about her, shivering. She was careful to watch her feet, for the ground was black and dark and littered with stones. Irri had said even the smallest cut could fester, and if she was to fall…

Dany could have just as easily sent Jhiqui, or Doreah in her place, but the stars above were too beautiful not to gaze upon. The Dothraki believed the stars were horses made of fire, a great herd that galloped across the sky by night… and so did she too, now.

When she heard their laughing, saw the distant golden light flickering against the grasses, a worry rumbled long and low in her stomach. _What if he is with them?_ Viserys still hadn’t forgiven her for what she had done, his eyes still gazed full of hatred. She hoped this would change his mind.

Her khas was seated around two blazing fires, the flames dancing up high into the darkness. As she stepped out of the grass, the heat hit her full in the face. Dany gasped. Still, they did not notice her. Most of their eyes were fixed on the two great hunks of meat that hung from iron spits over the fire, roasting and dripping fat. Dany licked her lips. Her supper had been only a simple meal of fruit and cheese, with a jug of honeyed wine to wash it all down.

Her brother was not amongst them, part of her had already known. She saw Jhogo by the far end, the other riders of her ko beside him. He curled his whip between his fingers. She remembered the day in the grass. There was an empty place in her heart where her fear had been. She stepped forward.

When their eyes found her, the voices faded.

Rakharo was suddenly on his feet, silent. The arakh hung long and sharp and curved from his hand, shining black steel. The others began to join him. Dany bid them all to sit.

It was not long before Irri came to her. “Khaleesi,” she said, brown eyes delicate. She rested a palm over the small swell of Dany’s belly. “You must rest. You are with child, it is known. We will go back to your te-”

Dany had not forgotten; how could she have? She lifted a hand. “Not yet, I would have a moment.” The handmaid stepped aside, wordless. It had taken Dany almost a full moon’s turn before she had gathered the courage to give them the commands of a khaleesi, and not the requests of a girl.

Jon Snow was already watching her from the behind the fire at her left, half-bathed in light and half in shadow. When she called his name, he merely sat up straighter, his face unmoving. It was as if he hadn’t even heard her.

Dany hesitated. Years of living in fear of Viserys’s anger had taught her how to read an expression; to see the anger in his lilac eyes, the crease in his brow and the twist of his mouth, to see if she would escape a night unscathed. But in Jon’s face, she could see nothing.

Then he stood. Dany took a breath. _Did I make the right choice?_ “You have nothing to fear in him,” Duncan had told her, when her brother’s words had left her doubting his place in her khas, “nor do you have cause to hate him, Daenerys. You are not your brother.”

 _You are not your brother._ In Pentos, she hardly dared to look his way. That had been a long time ago. She thought of those words when she said, “Please, show me where you keep my brother’s horse.”

The words earned her a puzzled look, but Jon Snow nodded and turned. He stepped over the thick log where the others sat, Silent and Sullen. It saddened her deeply to see the scarred red skin of Marys’s face swimming in the light. He gave a meek, twisted smile as she passed. Dany followed.

They walked in darkness, the distant sound of the cackling fires fading. The air grew thinner, colder. Dany rested a hand over her stomach, over the child growing inside her. _Blood of my blood,_ she thought, how could she ever feel cold with life stirring inside her? It was a short walk, but made longer by the silence that lingered between them.

“I kept him here,” Jon said, when a tall brown horse came poking through the blackness. Her brother’s horse. She rested a hand over the thick black mane, whilst Jon went to find a torch. The bristles were soft beneath her palm.

Jon had chosen to keep the horse by his side as they crossed the Dothraki Sea, pulled along by a rope. Ser Jorah had offered to take the burden, but Jon had refused without hesitation. There was no respect between the two of them, after Jorah had been banished from their homeland across the narrow sea.

When he returned, torch in hand, the golden light filled the air. Their shadows were cast upon the tall grasses swaying all around them. “Good,” she said. In the khalasar, every man was a warrior – except the very old and the very young – but in the light, she was reminded how young he was. _Like me._

“My lord husband has commanded that Viserys take his place at the head of our column,” Dany watched his face with each word, to see if he could sense that she was lying. “I mean to give it to him. I’ll need the horse-”

“Readied,” Jon finished. He turned back to the shadows.

Dany was silent as she watched him throw the short Dothraki saddle atop the horses back. His fingers worked the strips with practice. _He grew up in a castle,_ she remembered. _A traitor’s castle,_ her brother would have said, but it was a castle all the same. Dany had never seen a real castle.

The question was on her lips when he suddenly turned the horse to her, a hand holding the leather straps. It was done. She took them in silence, chin high.

“My- my, queen.” Jon said, when she began to turn away.

He was her brother’s son, her noble brother Rhaegar; the warrior, the Silver Prince, the man who Viserys had spent nights telling her stories of. He had come to them, desperate, and they had tried only to turn him away. There in the dark, Dany felt ashamed.

“Daenerys,” his voice was low, “thank you.”

Dany smiled, unbidden, nodded her head, then turned away. Dark, were the grasses around her, and she checked over her shoulder just to make sure her brother had not been near… _he will not know about this,_ she thought as she crossed the hill, horse in hand, _why should I fear?_

She was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki, the wife of the greatest khal, and soon she would be a mother. Her heart warmed at the thought. It had been her fourteenth nameday, a fortnight ago, when Jhiqui had laid a hand over her stomach and said, “Khaleesi, you are with child.”

“I know,” Dany had told her.

The horse groaned beside her, stopping to kick its hooves in the mud. Dany gave the reins another pull. Her silver would have come easily, but her brothers horse was as defiant as he was.

She had never loved anything so much in her life than her silver. Irri had been ordered to teach her how to ride in Dothraki fashion, but the filly had been the real teacher. This horse was different, though, she found in the darkness of the hill. No matter the words she uttered or how hard she pulled, it would not come willingly.

Dany stopped and breathed. In the distance, a hunting hawk screeched. The grasses shivered all around her, sighing. She felt the mud between her toes, warm and soft, the heat in her belly, in her blood.

She mounted the horse in one swift movement.

Her back and legs were still aching from the day’s ride, but not enough to stop her. The mount faltered backwards, she pressed her feet into the stirrups and gave the reins a yank. _How had Jon towed this horse about for so long?_

The horse almost reared in response, whickering. This was not the way. She was like to be thrown from the saddle. A man had to break a horse beneath his will when he became a khal, a wild animal that would only be his… Dany gave the horse her heels and snapped the reins. 

Suddenly they were bounding up the hill. Her silver hair streaming like a pale cloak. When they finally reached her tent, high upon the mound, she was smiling and dreaming of home. Of King’s Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built, Dragonstone where she had been born… the cities were alive, and all the doors were red.

Her handmaidens were waiting for her. Doreah had already made the fire when they arrived, the flames burning brightly. With their help, she dropped from the saddle and said, “Take my brother’s horse. Have the servants groom him,” when her brother saw it, she did not want him to be disappointed, “find trappings for it too, cloth of red-on-black would be best.”

 _The colours of our house,_ she thought, _Viserys would like that._

Irri led the horse away, whilst Doreah and Jhiqui followed her into the warmth of her tent. It was dim and cozy beneath the silk. Her muddy toes curled in the sleeping furs that were littered across the ground, furs dark and gold and white as snow.  

“Please, prepare me a bath,” she told Jhiqui. She wanted to feel _clean._ The handmaiden smiled and ducked under the flap of her tent.

Dany felt the familiar warmth in her belly. She turned to Doreah, “Bring me one of my dragon egg’s, if you would.”

Doreah brought back the egg with the pale cream white shell, streaked with gold. _They are so beautiful,_ she thought as she turned it in her hands. Every night, she liked to hold them. The scales seemed to glisten and move in the light, and they were _warm._  

Dany had thought she had been dreaming at first. Stone, they are only stone, Illyrio had said so the day he had given them to her.

 _And my child, when he is king, he shall have one._ She sat with the white egg in her hands until Irri tapped her gently on the shoulder. They had prepared her bath. The great big copper tub she had been given as a bride gift was full with steaming water, calling to her. Jhiqui helped her pull the painted vest over her shoulders, and she fell into the water with a sigh.

It had not always been easy, she reflected as her Irri scrubbed her back. Dany had felt as much a stranger as her brother when they left Pentos, surrounded by horde of fifty thousand barbarians. She could no longer look to Duncan in everything. She was alone with her three dragon’s eggs. Come the nights, when her husband would visit her tent before dusk, she would use a pillow to muffle her cries of pain as he took her. When he had finished, Dany would lie beside him in silence, body bruised and sore, hurting too much to sleep.

After a moon, her hands and thighs had been so wracked with blisters she could barely sit the saddle, and the muscles in her legs trembled each time she took a step. She would rather die than go on, she had decided one night.

Yet before dawn could break, that night she had found her courage. A dragon in her dreams, with gleaming red eyes searing away her skin in a great bout of dragonflame. The next the day, when she came to the saddle, she did not seem to hurt quite as much.

The blisters soon burst, her thighs toughened, and it was her who took her husband beneath a sea of stars. _The gods favored me that night,_ she thought, when her Drogo’s seed had taken root inside her. Each morning, she was eager to climb the saddle, to steer her silver in the lands they passed, and await the ones that lied ahead. Unseen.

Dany’s skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. A great silence lingered in the air when Jhiqui laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterwards when they came to brush her hair, she thought about her sun-and-stars, Jon Snow, and her brother.

When she had ordered that he take her brother’s horse, the day in the grass, she had done so out of some great spur of courage. Perhaps he did not know she had seen him burst through the grass, before the others, as Jhogo and his whip took her brother around the throat.

Her khas was there to protect her, and serve in her all things… yet Jon’s part was his own choice, and Duncan’s. Not hers. _He will not serve you,_ she had thought. After all, what reasons for loyalty had they given him? Viserys had shown him nothing but hatred since he arrived, and Dany was too scared to have a will of her own… too frightened of waking her brother’s dragon. So she had sought to pretend he did not exist, to keep herself from risk.

Yet despite it all, when her brother had her trapped amongst the grasses, Jon Snow was there before the others. Dany thought on that when her handmaidens left her, as the night beyond the entrance grew cold and dark. It was always warm beneath the silk of her tent, though. She laid under her smooth sandsilk cloak, cream-white dragon egg tucked in the curve of her belly where her son grew inside her, and dreamed.

She was a little girl again. Small, timid and innocent. Before her loomed a great big red door, and she pushed it open with a hand. It croaked and groaned and took forever. Before she could step foot inside, it was gone. Darkness covered her eyes like some thin black mask.

“Just tonight, then,” she heard her brother’s voice. A hand grabbed her through the dark, gentle, and she climbed into her brother’s featherbed. She was still young, she knew somehow, and the storm in the distant seas of Braavos had woken her in the night. Storms frightened her, she had been born amidst one. _Stormborn._ Viserys would let her sleep in his own bed. This was no more a dream than it was a memory.

“Storms are fewer at King’s Landing,” he told her when she was tucked beneath his chin. “Once I take back my crown, they’ll never frighten you again.”

When she woke, it was Drogo beside her.

Her handmaidens helped her dress into a painted vest and Dothraki riding leathers. Afterwards, Jhiqui had braided her silver-gold hair in Dothraki fashion, whilst Doreah took her dragon egg back to the cart to be pulled along by the packhorses. Dany had smiled, remembering its warmth, and the sweet dreams it summoned.

The sky was turning from the colour of a blood bruise, the sun peaking the over the grasses in lazy shafts of light, as she stepped outside the cover of her tent. Irri came to her.

“Khaleesi, your brother’s horse is ready.” The girl did not look pleased to say. For in truth, none of them saw him as the king he was.

“Good,” Dany replied, smiling. The horse had been groomed as she requested, and they had found the cloth to coat it. Red on black, that was right. “Run and find him and invite him here. I will give him the horse myself.” 

A part of her hoped for him to like it, desperately. Dany watched Irri turn and descend the hill, as slaves began to take the down the thin silk walls of her pavilion. Their chatter filled the air, mingled with the grass and wind and whine of horse. _Was she wrong to hope?_ Only the gods knew truthfully.

Before Irri could return with her brother, the men of her khas began to arrive, ascending the ridge slowly, a dozen in number. Dany was no stranger to such, for her khas were responsible for the carts and her things and her precious dragon’s eggs, but never before had it been more ill-timed.

Jhogo was amongst them, whip slapping against his thighs with every step. Upon that, Dany had nearly ordered them all away, but thought against it. It was not long until she spotted Jon, flanked by Silent and Sullen.

Then her brother arrived.

He climbed the hill in long steps, three paces ahead of Irri. His tunic was filthy, stained by hard travel and rotted from sweat. The clank of his borrowed sword filled the air. He met her eyes with disdain, and Dany’s heart sank.

But she smiled. “Brother,” she said calmly when he reached her. “You can rejoin us at the head of the khalasar. Your horse… I had him groomed for you, and the silk, it was especially prepa-”

Viserys snatched the reins from her hands. “So, my sweet sister remembers her place,” he sneered viciously, “and mine. What, did you think you were going to make me walk all the way to Vaes Dothrak?”

Dany shook her head. “No, I’d never…”

“Good. I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some savage with bells in his hair.” He climbed the horse with a grunt. Dany remembered how she had rode the horse the night before. Her brother had never gotten used to flat saddle and short stirrups of the Dothraki. “You and your bastard ought to remember that.”

Before she could say another word, her brother was galloping back down the hill. _Why was he always so cruel?_ She had only wanted to see him smile, to be grateful. Her mind had been full with the memories of her dream, real memories, and Viserys himself had shattered them all.

When she turned, Jon was staring right at her. His face was long and blank and solemn, but in his eyes Dany saw the words.

 _He knew this would happen,_ she thought, _and so did I._

 

## JON

The Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak was made of two gigantic bronze stallions, rearing, their hooves meeting a hundred feet above the roadway to form a pointed arch. Jon had seen no such wonders since he had sailed beneath the Titan of Braavos, looking out through his small cabin window on the Wind’s Wave.

It had been as tall as the clouds, Jon remembered, a god wrought in stone. He looked about him. The narrow road to Vaes Dothrak was littered with stone gods. 

They flanked either side of the path, still and immense, stolen and plundered over countless years by countless khal’s. Stone kings stared down from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained. No iron swords rested upon their knees, like how the Starks honoured the dead Kings of Winter, you’d need swords big as tree trunks. Maidens danced on marble plinths, flowers cresting their shoulders. Further onwards, monsters stood in the grass; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores.

Viserys was ahead, inspecting the likeness of a woman with six breasts and a ferret’s head. Jon was relieved. Ever since they had spied the two tall stallions in the distance, all his uncle had done was complain.

“I pray that my sun-and-stars will not keep him waiting too long,” He heard Daenerys say. She rode ahead, with her shadow Jorah Mormont trailing beside her.

“Your brother should have bided his time in Pentos.” Jorah replied, that much Jon could agree upon. “There is no place for him in a khalasar. Illyrio tried to warn him.”

The sun was weighing on him once again. Jon wiped a fresh layer of sweat from his brow, and fumbled with the sleeveless jerkin that rubbed against his chest. There was dust in the air about Vaes Dothrak, Jon had felt the need to cough more than once, in between rubbing his eyes. He could only imagine what it was like at the back of the khalasar, where forty thousand horses all rode together, kicking up clouds.  

Marys came trotting beside him, his laughing seemed to stretch all along the plain. Jon could no longer hear their words. “Funny, isn’t it?” the sellsword grumbled. The scarred skin around his chin shook wildly. “Such a large gate, but no walls!”

He tipped his head and laughed aloud. The scars had not done anything to his humor. Jon smiled, but turned to look over his shoulder where the other riders of the khas followed. They did not understand. “Where is the city?” he asked.

Marys was smacking hand on his thigh when he said, “the city? Under that mountain!”

Jon looked ahead and saw the great mountain in the distance, but no city was yet to appear, even a distant speck of it. Marys tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you not listen to anything I told you? The Mother of Mountains?”

“I remember,” Jon said, half-heartedly. He was trying to listen to what Jorah was saying again, but Marys was still laughing to himself. _The Others take him,_ Jon thought bitterly. He cantered his horse further, closer to them.

“-The Usurper would agree. He is a strong man, brave... and rash enough to meet a Dothraki horde in the open field. But the men around him, well, their pipers play a different tune. His brother Stannis, Lord Tywin Lannister, Eddard Stark,”

Jon squeezed the reins, hard.  He had crossed thousands of leagues, the very narrow sea, but Lord Eddard’s name was on everyone’s lips. Always reminding him.

_My sword…_

“You hate this Lord Stark,” Dany replied. Jon stopped, his horse whickering. They did not know he was listening. All around him, the air seemed to grow still. He waited for the answer.

“He took from me all I loved,” the exiled knight began. Jon tensed. “For the sake of a few lice-ridden poachers and his precious honour,”

The words pierced him like a knife. _I have been waiting for this,_ he thought, as a black rage take hold of him. Daenerys did not know the truth, only what others told her, but Jon Snow did. He gave the horse a strong spur, snapping the reins, until Duncan suddenly came rearing before him. Jon flung to a stop, nearly losing his seat, as the great grey courser kicked the open air.

They settled there in the road, the dust at their feet sweeping east. Staring. Jon shifted back into the saddle, silent, and felt the need to cough. Duncan said, “It would not be wise.”

How had he heard? When Jon opened his mouth, he almost blurted _my father,_ but caught himself at the last moment. “Eddard had the entire north’s reputation to protect! He knows that!”

Duncan did not move. Jon went on, “a reputation he dragged through the mud!”

Still, the sellsword watched him with silent violet eyes. _You abandoned the north as much as he did,_ the quiet air seemed to whisper. Jon gritted his teeth in anger. Somehow, the silence was worse than anything he could have said.

Marys came to shoulder, a cautious look about his face, but Duncan waved him away. “I heard Mormont, and what of it?” he said once the sellsword was a way away, an iron tone to his words.

Duncan swung his horse about then, and all Jon could do was frown and join him. “Jorah did bring dishonor to the north. But the north has not asked for your retribution,” he said, “you will find no reward for it here.”

“I don’t want a reward!” Jon said. The faces of Ned and Robb and Arya shot up before him. “He was speaking about Lord Eddard…”

“Does it come as a surprise to you that not everybody loves the lord? No one can blame for you defending him, and though Mormont was wrong to do what he did, your words will not change his thoughts,” Duncan sighed.

His beard and hair had grown quite unkempt since Pentos, Jon noticed, fading blue slashed with silver. He didn’t look so old as to be going grey, but Jon supposed some men were different to others. “You are Rhaegar’s seed,” Duncan said with a pain in his voice, “but it was Eddard who raised you.”

Viserys was riding down towards them in the distance. Had Rhaegar looked anything like Viserys? In Jon’s mind, he had not. Duncan went on, “Robert would have had you killed at first sight, like your brother Aegon and your sister, Rhaenys. Eddard declared you as his own for the whole realm to see, to protect you from that fate. You grew up safe within the walls of Winterfell, in the company of his own children. No man can deny there’s a certain honour in that, not even Jorah.”

Jon knew he spoke truthfully. He felt a fool for ever getting angry. _Nobody knows,_ Ned had said, _nobody could know._

The scattered city of Vaes Dothrak finally came looming over the crest of the hill. It sprawled both east and west, a vast line of rising black shapes in the distance, with no walls and no end in sight. As they got closer, Jon noticed the shapes were in fact pyramids and wooden towers and grass castles, all separated by streets made of mud and flowers, all baking in the warm sun.

 _It must be ten times the size of Pentos_ , he thought, and that had been a great bustling city with port and trade, a hundred-dozen different bricked buildings piled against another. There you seldom could walk the streets without your shoulders barging into others, and Jon could only imagine what Vaes Dothrak would be like… and yet, as they entered in a long train of riders, he noticed it was in fact almost empty.

“Where is everyone?” He asked Duncan, as Khal Drogo led them through the great bazaar of what was the Western Market.

“Only the crones reside here permanently, with their servants and slaves,” he looked around the stalls and hummocks, “it is the curse of marrying a khal. Should their husband die and they do not, they must live out the rest of their days here… in this place.”

They rode through the Western Market for a time, small children running beneath their horses and old men stood sentry before empty stalls, watching with weathered eyes. Except for those, it was almost empty. The West must have meant for the Free Cities too, Jon supposed, some Braavos and Pentos, Tyrosh and Lys, for there was nothing here that reminded him of Westeros.

Finally, Drogo stopped their trail at the Eastern Market. Where the few scant merchants would sell goods of a queerer kind, ones from Yi Ti and Asshai. Jon paid the stalls little heed as the riders ahead began to dismount, and a clangor of voices filled the air.

“Here we go,” Duncan said, as a great army of slaves came running out of the stalls on light, dirtied feet. Jon creased his brow, watching the rest of them from his horse. But when Duncan dismounted and began to unstrap the belt at his waist, he did the same.

So was every rider, he noticed, unbolting their arakhs and dropping them in the hands of waiting slave. Even Khal Drogo himself. Jon stared at Duncan over the saddles of their horses, hands working quickly at straps of his dagger. “No weapons?” He said.

“None,” Duncan replied. Jon did not fail to notice the lack of greatsword amongst the two daggers he placed in the slave’s hands, nor the great bundle of wrapped stained leather and furs that hung from the side of his saddle, suspiciously long. That was dangerous.

A slave approached. The man was older than Jon, with heavy lidded eyes and a shaved head red with sunburn. Jon offered a meek smile, pitying him, as he dropped the sheathed dagger into his hands. The dagger had come from Winterfell too… but it had not been his for long, it had been Joffrey’s.  

When the slave did not move, Jon found himself growing startled. He eyed Duncan for help, but the sellsword was not looking his way. They stood there staring at one another, the air full of voices and the clank of steel, until the slave slowly pointed a withered finger at the sword knotted against Jon’s saddle, at the crimson hilt wrought into the shape of a dragon’s head.

Jon sighed. He had kept Illyrio’s sword wrapped away in cloth, hanging forgotten from his saddle. Even when he had lost his own. Why had he not thrown it away? Jon untied the straps that bound it to his horse and gave it to the slave. If he knew the words, he would have told the man to keep it.

As the slaves departed, arms full with weapons, he joined Duncan at to the head of the throng. Khal Drogo and his bloodriders were mounting their stallions once again. Ahead was the temple of the dosh khaleen, at the very center of the city – as Marys had forewarned– and it was not made of bronze and silver like he claimed some stories told, but wooden with huge pillar of oak, roofed with worn silk.

“With no weapons about us,” Jon said, “how are the khas meant to protect Daenerys? Or the bloodriders?”

Duncan shook his head and said. “They will be no need for protection here. No khalasar may stay Vaes Dothrak armed. Khal’s put aside their feuds and share meat and mead,” they reached Daenerys, where her ko and handmaidens huddled around her like flies, “there are ways around it, though.”

Even in the sweltering heat, those words seemed to make him chill. “What ways?”

Duncan scratched the stubble of his face. “No blood may be spilled, no sword drawn in earnest, that all must obey… but a clever man may do neither of those things to kill.”

Jon did not like the sound of his words. _Words are wind_ , he thought, _he is only warning me._ “Or a desperate man,” Jon said in an icy tone.

Duncan didn’t seem to hear him, staring forwards as Khal Drogo and his bloodriders rode alone into the haze of distant dust, past the temple and towards the Mother of Mountains.

Only when the four shimmering shapes of them were lost did they move on. Doreah led them to a large, hollow hill that had been prepared for Daenerys and the khal. An pavilion shaped from earth. Jon did not doubt the silk tent they had used in travelling was more of a comfort, but this was the city of the Dothraki, and comforts were not to be had.

Jon took a seat in the grass, the mound of mud looming behind him, as the others reined in the packhorses. In truth, it was great comfort enough to know that he would not have to climb his saddle again come the morrow, even at Winterfell he had not rode every day. _A rest is needed,_ he thought, _and perhaps here I can earn the name that Duncan speaks of._

Ghost came through the haze of slave, servant and warrior. Earning gasps from each one he passed as they stood and froze to watch him. Only when Jon gave the direwolf a ruffle over the ears and he laid at his feet did they turn away. Come the nights, when he slept beneath the stars, he had missed the warmth of his wolf’s white fur and the rumble of his belly as he breathed.

It was three days’ past when Ghost had gone off again, into the wild to hunt. Jon had been doubtful at first; what if he should be found by another khalasar coming to Vaes Dothrak? Or some tiger or great lion? Ghost was a direwolf, bigger than his distant-cousins, and fiercer, but not fully grown yet.  

 _Big enough to tear out the throat of any man,_ Marys assured, often urging Ghost away. Ever since he had gotten his scars, Ghost had suddenly unnerved him.

“We’re staying here, Ghost,” Jon told him in a whisper, so the others around them could not hear. “Only for a while.”

The wolf only cocked his head sideward and stared up at him with big red eyes. Did Ghost understand him? He did not know, but the two remained still, watching as Drogo’s khal of fifty thousand Dothraki settled into the endless city of Vaes Dothrak.

It was not long before a bronze brazier was hefted in the grass, small flames poking above its wide and round frame. Rakharo stood poking it with a black iron rod, whilst Aggo and Jhogo sat beside one another laughing. The sun was falling to the west, and the light with it. Jon laid back and listened.

“… Khal Rhaggat does not… the right,” Aggo was saying. Jon couldn’t see him, but knew the words to be his. But most of the words he couldn’t understand either, the Dothraki tongue did not come easily to him, no matter how good a teacher Marys might have been. “We see the Khaleesi to the crones… find me a good woman…”

Whatever he said must have been funny, for the others laughed, but Jon did not understand. He decided to stop trying, and only then did he notice the Irri returning from one of the markets. She carried a basket of fruits and vegetables, ripe and clean, and a haunch of goat was tucked under her arm. _Were they preparing a feast?_

Jhiqui was stood over the brazier, long black hair glimmering in the fire as she worked a spit. The smoke carried the scent of meat, rich and warm. Jon licked his lips, his mouth watering. He had ridden on an empty stomach, like most days. 

He never saw Marys and Aerar return until the tall man tapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you ready?” He said, taking a seat in the mud beside him. Aerar was helping with the meat, and smiling. Jon had never seen the man smile before.

He turned to Marys and said, “Am I ready for what?”

“Why, your lessons boy. Unless you don’t need them?”

Jon turned back to the brazier. “Not tonight,” he swept a hand over Ghost’s fur. They had ridden hard today, hoping to make the last stretch towards Vaes Dothrak before nightfall. He was in no mood to be scolded by a sellsword who fancied himself a maester.

Marys did not reply, Jon took that for acceptance. The smell of meat was growing stronger, even Ghost had been roused from sleep, and the sky was turning darker. _What are they preparing?_ When Doreah came running through the door at his back, Jon could not help but call after her.

“Lord Jon,” she turned on him, eyes wide. _I am no lord,_ he wanted to say, but it would not make no difference.

Instead stood up straighter and said. “What are you preparing?”

Doreah looked at the brazier. “The Khaleesi has commanded me to find Viserys, she wants him to join her for supper... and she has some gifts she must give him.”

So that was it. _Was the horse not proof enough?_ He could already feel the beginnings of a mistake here, but he could hardly march into the tent and tell Daenerys Targaryen that. Jon looked her over wearily. “Well,” he said, hesitating. He remembered last when he had let another fall into his uncle’s grasp, and that had ended in blood.

Doreah’s big blue eyes were on him, waiting for his words. _Earn a name,_ Duncan had said. She blinked slowly _. You have no part in protecting them, bastard. Go back._ “I’ll come with you.” Jon said.

Her face was marred with doubt. “That is most kind of you,” she said, “but Viserys, well, after you took his horse…”

 _She is right,_ Jon thought. His presence was not like to bring any high spirits to his uncle, but he had seen how Viserys treated requests. If anyone was fool enough to spill blood here, it would be him. _I cannot stand by and let him hurt anyone else._ “It will be fine. Daenerys will suffer no delays. Go on.”

Hesitantly, she turned and carried on walking. Jon followed in silence, hand curled around the air where the hilt of his sword would be. It was his duty, in the khas, to protect.

They passed through hovels once empty now lit with fires, the blackness inside now replaced with golden light. Jon saw shadows from within, dancing along the walls, laughing and mumbling in deep tones. _Families._ The inner circle of the city was filling quickly, but that was only Drogo’s khalasar, and Duncan had said it was likely that others would return to their Mother of Mountains to see the khal’s new Valyrian bride.  

Blood seemed inevitable, Jon thought. The Dothraki were warriors indeed, skilled in the ways of horse and bow, loyal; but Jon had not been blind to the sights of men and women rutting openly in the grass, the corpses sown from a night’s drinking left to the carrion crows. How could a few words from old crones stop that?

Doreah stopped beside a timbered hut, the door covered by thin silks turned more black than white over the years.

“Wait here,” she said in a commanding voice. Jon was silent. He took a place beside the door, stood up straight, feeling like Desmond or Jacks at Winterfell, when they would guard the way to the Great Keep… or even Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Jon found himself smiling.

The sky had turned the colour of Duncan’s hair, dark blue and deep purple, with scatters of silver cloud amidst it all. Night was coming. Jon eyed those sat around nearby fires, greybeards and men and boys without bells in their braids. There were no arakhs hanging from their belts, but in a fight, Marys had said they use claw and tooth just as well.

He prayed it would not come to that, but when his uncles voice came booming through the door, he could not be certain.

“Commands me?” Viserys screamed. “And she sends you?” Jon heard footsteps from within. His body tensed. Why had he come if he was going to stand outside and do nothing? He had been too late in the Dothraki Sea. _It is your duty._

Jon ducked through the door.

His boots came upon uneven trestles of flat oak, laid upon the floor. The sound almost made him jump, and gave way to his entrance long before the others had seen him. The room fell deathly quiet. Jon pushed aside low hanging awnings made of grass and silk, slowly, until Viserys was stood tall before him.

The long silver-gold hair framed his poisonous eyes. “You,” he growled, “does a bastard mean to give me orders too? No one commands the dragon!”

Jon clenched his teeth as his uncle took a step towards Doreah. The girl was hunched, smaller, frightened. Jon could taste fear in the air.

“Nobody is commanding you,” he said calmly, but his fists were clenched tightly at his side.

The boy in him had endured enough of his uncle’s cruelty. After Pentos, the sneers and the names, the Dothraki Sea… but Daenerys had suffered the same, and she still tried to make amends. _You will serve her well,_ Duncan had said. Jon remembered the image of his uncle curling in pain amongst the grass, crying as the whip coiled into his neck; and his anger left him.

“Daenerys _requests_ that you would join her for supper.”

His words lingered in the dusky air. He could hear men laughing outside. Viserys shook his head and in an instant, darted past them, stepping out into the night.

Jon turned and followed, wordless. There had been no fight, no quarrel, and that was good enough. The others did not watch them go by, sat silent around their dull fires. By the time they reached Dany’s mound of mud, the meat above the brazier was gone, but the smell lingered in the air.

Viserys swept inside, silent. Jon could only pray that this was not to be another mistake, as he thought it would be. Marys was still sat upon the mud, talking over his shoulder to the shrunken form of Aerar. Jon stood a distance away from him, and hoped that whatever gods might have heard him, they proved him right.

No more than a few moments later, Viserys came sprawling from the tent. He stumbled into the dust, a hand grasping his right cheek. Jon saw the blood welling beneath his fingers. _Only Daenerys was inside the tent._ Suddenly they were all on their feet. The silence swept away by the dust, and Jon’s hope with it.

His uncle stood and stilled himself, angry lilac eyes gazing over them. A drop of blood fell from his face and landed on the side of his boot, mingled in the grass. Jon waited.

Viserys turned and scrambled away, grunting. They watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gone for a year. Time goes so fast its quite scary sometimes. Anyway, I want to see this story through to the end for myself and those who would like to read it. Have a couple more chapters ready, hope to have them up soon.


	8. Dragon's Woe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thanks for all the support given on the last chapter, from some names I recognise and others completely new!

## THE SCARRED SWORD

“Wait here. See that she arrives within the hour. I’ll find you there.”

Marys Ormos had waited outside the grass-and-mud palace of Daenerys Targaryen, silently, for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps the night had gone by with him stood there, foolish and unmoving, and the sun was soon to rise. _What was the purpose of a guard?_ He wondered. In the sacred city of Vaes Dothrak, even the most savage of riders would not dare spill blood, lest they anger their gods.

He knew for a certainty that no harm would come to the girl, yet here he stood beside the doorway; a dutiful, cold sellsword. The sun had fallen beneath the horizon, a lifetime ago, and with it the warmth. The cold night sky above was black and lit with stars. More than once had the thought occurred to him of entering the tent to see what the young girl was waiting for, but the Dothraki did not appreciate being rushed, and so he had settled on trying to listen for their voices for any indication.

That had not helped. Tonight, the young khaleesi was to be presented to the dosh khaleen, leaving the camp alive with a hundred thousand voices all muttering in excitement. Khal Jhaggo had arrived a few nights ago, with Khal Ogo in tow. The men and women and slaves of their khalasar’s filling the hovels and huts and alleys, reeking of shit and oil.

At least here, when he sniffed, he smelled horsemeat. The smells came from the great plumes of smoke rising in the distance, beside the tall temple of the crones that towered over the mud-and-grass castles ahead. That was where Duncan waited, with the fires and the warmth and the people.

 _Curse that man,_ Marys thought with a frown, shifting from one foot to the other. He would have spit on the dirt if his mouth wasn’t so dry. Why had he agreed to this? Duncan had given the order in his usual manner, a simple request that was much more demanding than it sounded. When he got those deep purple eyes on you, though, Marys found it was hard to disobey.

And Duncan knew it. That was how he had convinced them to join the khas in the first place, a long stern stare that spoke more words than he ever could. Marys had thought of disobeying him then, as he had now. _A khas?_ _What fool would do such a thing?_ The girl had enough men about her already, and Marys had seen no need for more. It was Duncan’s own distrust of Dothraki that needed watching, his fear that they would hurt his precious princess.

Yet when Aerar had simply nodded like some soldier without a tongue, galloped his horse towards the head of the khalasar where his new duty lied, Marys could only keep his silence and follow.

He was starting to regret that. “This is nothing.” The young rider, Rakharo, was sat upon a rock two foot from the doorway, speaking to the other riders of the ko. They were waiting as well. Marys had always been called a simple man, and the wreck of his jaw was proof of that, but the Dothraki tongue had come easy to him at least.

It was useful in times like these. “You will see.” Rakharo said, standing from his rock. “Drogo will have all the khalasar’s of the world see his son.”

 _The child,_ he thought, wincing as a flash of pain danced along the raw skin of his jaw. Even though it happened often, he was never quite ready, nor when he pushed his tongue forward, hoping to find teeth, and was reminded that they were not all there. Aerar had called it a mercy, the other man was dead and rotting on that hull, but Marys was not so sure.

The even younger rider, Jhogo, shook his head. “How could you know? What if the crones say she has a daughter?”

Aggo, the eldest, spat loudly. Marys watched it fly through the air, crack against the rock and slither down into the grass, brown and yellow. “Then god is cruel, and she will be left in the sands to die. Khaleesi will eat the horse heart to earn gods favour, it is known.”

Marys gritted his teeth and looked away, hands tightly clasped together in front of him. He felt the urge to grip a sword’s hilt, to feel the leather burn against his palm, but no swords may enter the sacred grounds of the city. Perhaps the girl was better off with him and Aerar, and the boy Jon Snow. No girl and her babe deserved to be left to the sands to die. The riders of her ko were able warriors all, but still sought more favour with the khal than protecting the khaleesi.

Yet where were they now? It was only Marys himself who had been set on this fool’s errand, Aerar and the boy were nowhere to be seen. _The temple,_ he thought, listening to the distant sounds of laughter carried through the wind. The riders of the ko started laughing at some jape. _Poor company,_ he thought. Marys would’ve preferred Jon Snow to be with him.

He had spent most of the journey with the boy, telling him tales and stories. He found most of them useless, Marys did not doubt. _As I did,_ he thought _._ It was not the first time Marys had set foot on the sacred sands of Vaes Dothrak, and he could not deny he liked the boy’s company… or was it just the sound of his own voice? A reminder that he could still use it? The silence scared him, left him alone with his thoughts, and even though it pained the taut skin around his lips when he spoke, it was still a relief.

Trouble seemed to latch on the boy like some desperate whore, as well. Marys had watched him scamper through the city with the handmaiden, intent on protecting her from any affront his uncle might offer. _Honourable, sure._ Viserys was cruel enough, he knew… but honour meant nothing here, and was like to get you killed.

Marys looked down at the grass beneath his boots, what else was there to look at when standing idle as a guard? He remembered the night Viserys had come stumbling into the very place he stood, bleeding. He had thought Jon was at blame. _It was death to draw blood here._ No one knew that better than Marys. But it had been Daenerys herself who had struck him, the girl had found some wild courage, and afterwards Viserys had not spoken a word of it.

Yet, that was not the end of it. Duncan had told them to watch him from that moment on. The risk was too great. They had followed him as he returned to his hut, to brood alone, and Marys had thought was that was enough. The king would seethe, swear oaths to the dark, and the next day come out and join his sister again, as the cowardly bastard that he was. But of late, the Beggar King had been begging. With the arrival of the khal, merchants had flooded the bazaars, and with them Viserys found city wine and promises.

“Move, fool man.” He had not seen the small girl in the doorway, and jumped when she prodded him in the rib with a finger. It hurt more than it should have. Marys looked back at her for a moment, still, as she stared back at him with dark impatient eyes.

He moved, clear of the doorway, for the first time in what felt like years. His legs were numb, hesitant to give way, aching each time he took a step, but he did not show any sign of it. Sighing was just as painful. _Damn them all,_ he thought as he ghosted a finger over the red skin of his mouth, _it hurts to breathe._  

Marys sniffed loudly, smelling the scent of horsemeat, and put the pain to the back of his mind. It would not do well in this place, were only strength mattered, there was no sympathy to be found here. He stood quiet in the mud and watched the door.

Daenerys Targaryen came striding out of the tent wearing smooth Dothraki sandsilk, golden bands wrapped around her arms and wrists, engraved with old runes. A long black cloak flowed from her shoulders, brushing against her ankles. Marys remembered when she was presented to the khal in Pentos, small and timid and scared, when she had looked the girl she was.

The handmaids had fashioned her hair, long and silver, into an intricate bread that brushed against the small of her back. Perhaps that had taken the most amount of time. Marys did not look to meet her eyes. The girls face was a mask, as stern as Jon Snow’s, as she was helped into the saddle by her handmaids. She could no longer climb it herself, he noticed, for her belly was big with child. 

Only once she was steady in the saddle, bare feet settled within the short stirrups, did the khas mount their horses. The handmaidens climbed up upon their small filly’s backs, riding abreast behind their khaleesi. The riders of the ko had horses of a bigger sort, Marys saw. Aggo’s stallion was black as night, the others brown and sable, smaller. They were the younger mounts for the younger riders, yet whickered just as wildly as they were mounted.

Marys was stood still once again, feeling his legs cramping. _Fool, my horse!_ He felt a blaze of panic go through him, as the horse’s long faces watched him at every turn, whickering aloud. A hoof kicked up dirt to his left, and he nearly jumped in fear.

His chin was flaring in so much pain his eyes began to water, but he found his horse, Blackblood (Fleet had fallen ill and died on the Dothraki Sea) behind the hut in stifled silence. _Breathe,_ he thought, as the healer had suggested when the pain caught him; but then he remembered that hurt too.

They had already reached the Godsway when he caught them, riding slowly down the narrow muddy-road that ran from the Horse Gate to the Mother of Mountains. Marys took the rear, treading behind the walking slaves in sullen silence. _Why do I bother?_ The path was flanked by hovels leaning on one another. Marys saw the many faces that poked from the small cracks between them, blanketed in darkness. Some were frightened faces, faces of those too old and too young to attend ceremonies, leaning against each other much like the shelters around them. _Those are the ones who smell of shit,_ he thought. 

He sniffed the air once again and smelt the charred horsemeat, rising with the smoke of the firepits. He licked his lips, out of habit, and great spikes of pain spiraled from his mouth and to his head, tendrils shaking through his body. _Fool,_ he thought laughably, gripping the reins so tight they burned his palms. There was nothing to do but let the pain to see its course.

Yet he nearly forgot it all when through watering eyes, he saw Viserys Targaryen riding down towards them. At his sides were two black walking shadows. Marys rubbed the sting from his eyes and saw that the men were eunuch guards, from the markets, tall and deadly. Eerily silent.

Their heads were as bald as eggs, eyes flat and pale, faces so still they seemed dead. They offered him a glance, frowning, stretching the ribbons of blue silk that were tied around their wrists. They would the ribbons to kill you without angering the gods, he knew, choke you without a spot of blood. 

Viserys did not seem to notice him, swaying upon his saddle, grinning knowingly. Marys saw the wineskin in his left hand, the other gripping the reins. A pang of sudden terror shot through him. _Viserys would not attend the ceremony?_ He turned over his shoulder to watch them descend into the shadows. _Where was he going?_

To the market, most like. But, there were no guards left at… A tall rider heralded their coming as they passed the final line of shelters. The temple of the dosh khaleen loomed above in a great big shadow, a shadow cast over a thousand Dothraki as their voices filled the air.

There must have been five thousand of them, at least. Marys had never seen so many people in one place. There were more heads than he could count, and more eyes watching than he dared to think. Men of Drogo’s khalasar, and Ogo’s and Jhaggo’s. They stretched as far back as the distant shelters to the east and west, like insects. Even Marys could see the young boys climbing atop the buildings and each other, pulling on shoulders and heads just to get a better look.

The only thing keeping them apart from the crowd were fierce eunuchs lining their flanks. The men created a wide berth for the khaleesi and her party. Marys let Blackblood lead him into the entrance. He tried his best not to notice them. When he had last been here, it was amongst the crowd. Another head amongst the thousands.

They crossed under the wide arch of the entrance. Marys felt the warmth of the braziers caress the stinging skin on his face. The great silk covers of the domed roof had been pulled away, when he looked upwards, he saw stars. _A sight nice enough,_ Marys thought, but even the old crones did not want to boil under their own roof, that was the true reason. Even within the temple, Marys weighed three hundred onlookers. Huddled against one another like insects.

Their trail was stopped before the center-stand. Daenerys dismounted first, the handmaidens rushing to help her. _The crones will not like that,_ he thought. A slave came running towards his from the crowds, as the others began to dismount. Marys gave her the reins of Blackblood, but held them for a moment as the girl made to turn away. She spun on her heels and stared. Marys scowled then let the reins go.

 _What now?_ His legs were still numb from all the standing, and he did not fancy standing much longer. The crowd began to close around him. Daenerys was approaching the center, all the eyes fixed on her. Marys looked at his boots. His duty was finished. Duncan had told him that he would find him here, but how? There were hundreds inside the temple, all squirming and nudging closer to the middle.

 _I deserve wine_ , _it numbs the pain, and… Viserys,_ he thought, remembering.

When he turned to leave, back the way he came, a hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

Jon Snow.

“Where are you going?” The boy asked, pushing his way past two men taller than he was. Despite himself, Marys was glad to see a familiar face against all the others. “I was finding you,” Marys lied. His voice was faint amongst the sounds mingled in the air, as the old women began to wail.  

Jon looked his face up and down, in the way he always did. Those grey eyes working. He had a way of finding truths from lies, Marys had noticed, a useful skill to have. “Well, we’re over here.”

He shuffled aside – as much as he could – so Marys could see Duncan through a gap between lines heads and shoulders. The man was stood upon a small step, above the others, his shaven cheeks glistening in the firelight. Marys sighed and nodded his head, gesturing Jon forward. _I’ll have no wine tonight then… but Viserys…_

The boy turned and carved them a way through the crowd, earning grunts and curses at every step. The boy did not seem to understand their words, though, and did not let them stop him. Marys brushed through the gaps afterward, weary. He was one of the tallest here, he had to admit, but he could no longer push his way past like he used to.

“Is Viserys here?” Marys asked between gasps, as he glided his way past a mother and her child. The little girl’s head brushed against his hip, but the mother paid him no heed. In an instant, they were gone.

He thought the boy had not heard him, until Jon stopped and turned to see if he was still following, and said. “I haven’t seen him.”

 _He was going back down the Godsway,_ Marys thought when they finally stepped into a clearing, _towards Daenerys’s hut._ He took a moment to breathe, grateful for even the smallest of space. The stars were still bright and beautiful, but he found Duncan and the others watching the ceremony, as were the rest.  

Marys took the place at his right. _The dragon’s eggs are there, unguarded._ He looked through the crowds below him, and found the three riders of her ko mingled towards the center. Had she left nobody? Sent no one back? Daenerys was stood on the wide circular plinth that stood two feet from the ground, the eldest crone looking down upon her.

The crowd had fallen deadly silent, each man and women and child straining to hear the old women’s brittle voices. Marys wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. His tunic clung to his chest, making it hard to breathe. What did he care if Viserys stole the eggs? _He would not get far with them, not here!_ He looked amongst the crowds again, searching for the silver-gold hair through the sea of black braids. Viserys was not here, sure as sunrise.

He remembered the merchants, the two tall eunuchs and their ribbons of silk, the days Aerar had spent following Viserys through the market. Viserys had spoken of taking the dragon’s eggs, he remembered, using them to buy his army and his ships and sail to Westeros on waves of plunder. _The eggs are unwatched, there for the taking. Curse it,_ he could not be silent.

When he turned to Duncan, his chin was screaming in pain. But in the Common Tongue, he said, “I notice Viserys is not here.”

Duncan did not move. It was as if he had not heard him. Marys looked away, resolute, but then heard a whisper. “Yes. You know Daenerys’s struck him, it will take a few days before he-”

“The eggs!” The words came in a desperate gasp. Marys kept his voice as low as he could, but still he saw Jon Snow looking back over his shoulder to watch them. Daenerys had her head bowed before the crone. “Aerar told you what he had been discussing… on the road here, I saw him with some of the guards from the markets. Tonight, he could take them-”

Duncan chuckled. “And do what? It is months to the nearest Free City, and only hours before Daenerys returns to her tent. Drogo would ride him down,”

“And slaughter him, no doubt.” Marys said. Duncan looked at him then, the laugh gone from his face.

“You’re sweating,” He said in a dry tone. He was, badly. Marys could feel it brimming along his nose. _What do I care if the evil bastard is rode down?_ Marys wiped the sweat with a sleeve. Was he just desperate to be out of this temple?

“Go, then.” Duncan said after a silence, “do not take Jon with you. Check that the eggs are where they should be. Then return… or stay there, if you like.”

Marys needed no more. He nodded his head, ignored the sting in his jaw, and stepped back into the crowd. He imagined Jon Snow was watching him from behind as he trudged towards the archway, wordless. _I will have to explain eventually,_ he thought, but now he could not distract himself with idle thoughts.

He looked over his shoulder as he stepped into the cool air, at Aerar stood sentry by Duncan’s side. _I should’ve brought him with me,_ he thought, if he was taking the eggs, if there was to be a fight…

 _No. No blood can be spilled in Vaes Dothrak._ Marys pushed the rest of his way through the crowd. The ones lingering here, so far behind, were the old, the young and the slaves. Most were too frightened to get in his way. He muttered apologies as he barged past them, and when he finally reached the hovels and huts, fell breathlessly against a wooden beam.

The silence was a great relief, and the cold even better. _Just a moment…_ he let himself catch his breath, head leant against the wood. He clenched his eyes shut, then felt a pinch of pain spread through his jaw, and suddenly he was back on the ship. The iron fist of his opponent was coming towards him through the darkness, unyielding, unstoppable.

He stood. _The more time I waste, the further he could run._ He looked over his shoulder one last time, to make certain that nobody was watching him. The slaves were all huddled together towards the archway, desperate on seeing the khaleesi upon the stand. _What do they care?_ He turned away and walked away.

It would have been faster had he been mounted, but Blackblood was with the slaves, back at the temple. Instead, Marys crossed the Godsway and walked into the darkness of the thoroughfares that ran between the shelters. It would be quicker, he knew, but darker, and more dangerous. There were no torches to light the way, he could hardly see his own feet before him. Mud was squelching beneath his boots. _Or shit,_ Marys thought. He carried on forward.

The gaps between the walls were growing thinner when a sound rattled behind him. Marys stopped in the darkness, wearier than ever. His sword hand reached for the sword that was not there. _Keep going, fool._ He took another few steps forward, only to earn a grunt from a man who had been laying in the mud, shrouded in darkness.

He jumped in fear, pain spreading through his mouth like an itch. He focused his eyes, but could not see the man’s body, only his small withered face. It was too dark. _The deck was dark_ , he remembered. Marys felt like a boy again, huddling through the streets of Pentos, boiled in the day and drenched in the nights.

Ignoring the ache, he stepped over the shadow of the man’s long legs and carried on. He knew he was not being watched. _What is there to watch?_ Amongst the khalasar, he was no one.

It was not long before the shadows gave way to torchlight, and he could breathe again. He stopped, knowing it was foolish, to let his eyes adjust. He would kill for a wineskin, for sleep. _Why did I return? Why did I join the khas?_ He looked back over his shoulder at the darkened, twisting path. The shadows whirled and moved. If the eggs were gone, he would have go back through there, to return to Duncan. 

 _I’ll take a torch,_ he thought, standing straight. _The eggs!_ The girl’s fortress of grass and mud and wood was further ahead, lingering in shadow. Marys strode towards it with determination. Behind the low hanging leather straps covering the doorway, the inside was gold with light.  

He crossed the pathway in four long strides, and found himself stopping just before entrance. His fist were clenched so hard it hurt. He strained his ears to listen, for voices, for Viserys inside with his eunuch guards, taking the eggs away.

Marys heard night birds circling in the distance, the hiss of torches, the low hum of a hundred conversations; but in the tent, all was silent.

He stepped into the light.

The inside was large and spacious, lit by iron braziers, and _empty._ The ground beneath his boots was covered in furs and silks, reds and whites and blacks. A strong whiff of scented oil caught him in the nose and made his eyes water, but in the far corner of the tent, he saw a large chest draped in silks and damasks.

He lifted it open, hesitantly, and inside were the three dragon’s eggs.

Hard as stone.

 

## JON

 “Westeros?”

The tall man nodded his head, black hair falling over his eyes. “Yes, Nightsong, have you heard of the castle? The Singing Towers? It’s in the Stormlands, on the Dornish Marches?”

 _Dorne_ , Jon thought with a frown, _the place my mother died_. He had always known he was brought from the south to Winterfell, but never questioned where in the south it was. He had no memories of the red hills and sandy winds of Dorne. Did Eddard feel the same sadness every time he heard it mentioned? He had been there, after all, at the tower.

Beside him, Duncan nodded his head. “Yes… I have, the seat of House Caron?”

Steffon, that was the man’s name, smiled ear-to-ear. One of his front teeth jutted inwards, blackened and crooked. “Yes! My half-brother, Bryce Caron of the Marches! He’s ruled the castle since my father died, with my sister Serilla.”

He had sat beside Robb as they studied maps and history and houses, under the watchful eyes of Maester Luwin, but Jon could not remember ever hearing of a House Caron, or a castle Nightsong at that. It wasn’t a great house. He looked over his shoulder, wearily. The Western Market was fill to bursting, a stall shadowing every foot of grass, the air full with a thousand voices. “Half-brother?” Duncan said, “you’re a Storm, then?” 

Jon turned to watch him answer, feeling his chest tighten. The man was silent for a moment, looking down at them with wide blue eyes, until he lifted his chin said, “I am, and my brother Ser Rolland is too. He was the first. They call him the Bastard of Nightsong.”

Grimacing, Jon remembered when men had called him Bastard of Winterfell behind his back, young guards like Desmond and Jacks and Wyl, thinking he had not heard. He had hated it, sworn that one day no one would ever call him a bastard again. This Rolland couldn’t have wanted this name, could he? Steffon Storm had no shame in his voice, no anger in his eyes. He spoke it as proudly as if his brother was a king.

The sun was high and bright, peeling back the morning air. Daenerys had summoned her khas upon the first light of dawn, when the city of Vaes Dothrak was beginning to wake and merchant caravans were flooding down the Godsway. Jon had mounted, half-asleep, and joined the long litter into the Western Market, to explore the new goods that had arrived overnight through heavy-lidded eyes.

The sounds and queer smells had woken him soon enough. It was hard to find silence in Vaes Dothrak. They had stopped at several drinking halls and burrows, looking through stored goods in deep underground cellars. It was cold there beneath the mud, Jon found he wished he was there now.

Instead, that was where he had left them. Duncan pulled him aside to visit a smith who had come from Lannisport. Jon was hesitant at first, remembering the smug look on the Lannister’s faces as they feasted in the Great Hall of Winterfell, but he had eventually relented. Daenerys would ride for hours amongst the stalls before noticing they were gone. They had left their horses with Marys and Aerar and descended into the crowds.

The smith, however, was a Tyroshi with a trident-forked beard the colour of spun gold. He sold plate and shields, helms wrought into beasts, all for a heavy price, intricate and enameled. Too fanciful for Jon’s liking. Amongst his display were no swords, though. No swords or weapons of any kind were allowed on the grounds of Vaes Dothrak, Jon knew.

Yet the man had a guard all the same. A Stormlander with dark black hair and blue eyes, dressed in brown, easily more than six and a half feet tall. To Jon, he looked like he knew how to use a sword.

“And your names?” Steffon Storm asked, not unkindly. Jon could sense the curiousness in his voice. _But does he suspect?_ Jon lowered his eyes, so the man would not see the worry in them. It was the boy in him who was afraid, he knew, but he could not be sure. _Eddard is the Hand, and he did say his brother was in King’s Landing._ He waited for Duncan to answer.

“You can call me Duncan,” Duncan said without a falter in his voice. The man nodded, and Jon wondered if he had seen the eyes. Eyes the colour of violet. Perhaps not, sometimes they looked more blue than anything else.

Duncan gestured to Jon. The lie came easily. “And this lad is Brynden, a Snow. His father was an old friend, a lesser lord, so when a flux got him years ago, I took the boy on.”

 _Snow._ It was better that way, he knew, even a lie would not hide the fact that Jon was northern. His solemn face, pale skin, grey eyes. Every man had always said he looked like Eddard Stark, more than Robb or Bran or Rickon. Even the Imp, the night of the feast. He had taken pride in it then… Jon closed his eyes, remembering. _Another name,_ he thought, _and I thought Hullen was the last._ He opened them. 

A moment passed, flies buzzing lazily around their heads. “How did you become a guard?” Jon found himself asking, desperate to change the subject. The armorer himself was nowhere to be seen. 

Steffon’s face darkened. A flash of dismay crept over his eyes, his gaze lowered. Then he looked up again, and it was gone. “I was in Lannisport, hoping to find some work… my father always said that lords would be eager to take on a man as... as big as I am.”

He paused for a moment, as if in thinking, then met their eyes. “I had need of some new armour and coin. Master Tycho gave me both, and sanctuary. He said I buy the plate for a cheaper price I went with him to Essos. He pays me. I’d always wanted to see more than just the lands around Nightsong, so I went. Did you come with one of the merchants too?”

Jon weighed the words, silent. Behind him, a man cried out in a loud glib tongue. A hundred different merchants had come riding in their great packs over the last moon, a khalasar full of city wines and packhorses and bronze-banded chests, eunuchs and colorfully dressed vendors from the nine Free Cities, each one stranger than the others, and every one of them settled their hooves and axels in the bazaars of the city. Surely Steffon Storm had not seen them all…

“No. We are servants of the khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryen,” Duncan said suddenly, his eyes unflinching, his voice firm. Jon had to stop himself from gaping, keeping his mouth shut and chin high. He would not let Duncan down. “I’m sure your Master Tycho knows she is here.”

 _Servants of Daenerys,_ Jon thought, _is it not Viserys you serve?_ Part of Jon still hadn’t forgiven the man for his idleness at the wedding, even if he knew there was no choice.

A sudden silence took Steffon Storm, as he looked down at his boots. Jon found his heart was beating faster, a part of him insisting that the man would lash out, attack them there, even if it was forbidden. The scar on his hip itched horribly. “Yes, he did speak of it.”

Duncan nodded his head, smiling knowingly. He was a head shorter than this Steffon, even with the man leant up against the post of his master’s stand, but even he seemed to hesitate under Duncan’s gaze.

“I thought so,” Duncan said, looking over his shoulders at the moving market around him, “otherwise, only half of these would be here.”

“No, yes, of course… and I heard the brother was here too, the Beggar Ki-” Steffon stumbled his words to a stop. His eyes grew like two big blue shields. His ears were beet red. “My lords, pardon my wor-”

Jon lifted a hand, and to his surprise, the man stopped. “Do you bring any news from Westeros, perhaps?” Jon asked. The question had been on his lips ever since the man started speaking of his brother’s castle. If he held it back any longer he was like to scream. “Who’s Robert’s new Hand?”

Best to pretend he did not know it was Ned. Steffon let his flushed face subside, as Master Tycho came back from behind his stall, breastplate in hand.

“After Jon Arryn?” The guard said, catching his breath, “yes, he died. An illness took him, they say. His wife has gone back to the Eyrie, and afterwards the King rode north. My brother went with him. Eddard Stark of Winterfell is Hand now, you must know of him?”

Duncan’s tone was hard. “Yes, go on,”

“That’s all I heard, my lords. Well, and when the King was at Castle Darry, his son was eaten by a wolf. A child’s tale, though.”

Jon hid a smile from his face. Joffrey was truly a little shit, Grey Wind or Nymeria ought to have shown him the Starks were not to be laughed at. _There were three others,_ he remembered, _Lady, Shaggydog and… Bran never named his before I left._ The thought pierced him like a knife in the gut.

But Steffon’s words had told him nothing new, nothing more than what Illyrio had spoken of at his table. Jon cursed the man. He had suspected that the fat merchant was lying in his tales, he was so sure of it, and to find out he wasn’t made it all somehow much worse.

Jon took a desperate step forward, “Is that all?” He asked.

 “Well, yes,” Steffon replied with hesitation, “word travels slow, my lords, I-”

Duncan placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder, easing him back. “That will be all,” he said. “You have our thanks.”

Master Tycho, the big bellied armorer, slammed a steel breastplate down on the wooden desk between them. Jon flinched as the wood creaked and dust leapt into the warm air. He stepped back, hesitantly, and saw Duncan drop a hand to his empty belt. Steffon Storm unfolded his arms and stood taller, and Jon noticed dozen others glancing at them from the near stalls.

“Are you buying, yes?” The fat armorer looked over them with a shallow smile and a glint in his deep green eyes. “You will find quality no better here, oh no, if it is steel you’re looking for; and not rags!”

Jon wished Ghost was with him, but stood still as stone as Duncan stopped to look the plate over. The sellsword ran his right hand over the steel, almost apprehensively, fingers gliding against the gold and white swirls painted over the armour. For a moment, they were all silent. Then Duncan pulled his hand away, and said, “No, another time.”

He turned and walked away, wordless, blue cloak brushing against the mud. A moment passed, Jon exchanged a quick glance with Steffon Storm, then ran and caught him in the midst of the market. Duncan was striding along the path on long legs, covering three steps a time. Deathly silent. Even behind him, Jon could feel a hardness in his eyes, as he strained to keep up.

They crossed the market without a word; ducking under slaves carrying baskets on their heads, ignoring the trader’s as they called after them, offering out their goods with open arms. The silence made Jon uncomfortable. He came up at Duncan’s side.

 “ _Brynden Snow?”_ He said, as they crossed through a narrow path of mud lining the edge of the bazaar, where stalls more dusty than grand groaned in the wind.

“I’m sure Steffon has never heard of a Jon Snow, nor those brothers of his,” Duncan did not look at him as he spoke, leading them through the crowd, “yet why take the risk?”

Jon found he was nodding his head, but worrying all over again. The people of Winterfell would know he was gone by now, he knew for a certain, even if the rest of the realm did not. _What does Robb think of me…_

Duncan looked at him over his shoulder. “That was the last we’ll see of the man. Forget about it, Jon.” 

By the time they reached the khas, Jon was relieved to see the familiar faces. Daenerys was mounted at the head, Ser Jorah and her handmaids and her ko fluttering around her. The trail of riders stretched down the Godsway like a serpent. The horses were unsettled, he knew as soon as he mounted, whickering and stamping their hooves. They did not like waiting, sweating under the sun.

“The girl wishes to see the Eastern Market,” Marys said through gritted teeth.  They watched a rider near the head of the column spur his horse to the left, as to look on them all, and bellow a few rough words. The khas was kicked into motion, “have you been there?”

Jon urged his own horse forward, wiping some sweat from his nose. “No,” he replied, “only on the way through here.”

Marys sneered, grumbling a few rough words under his breath. _There is a tale in this,_ he thought, but could hardly watch the man as he grumbled on. The expression made the raw skin around his mouth seem to shake and writhe and move. In the light, Jon could see the deep scars like ravines cut into his skin, and remembered the night they had found him in the manse, after the wedding.

Yet Marys chose to speak no more, clamping his lips shut. For once, Jon found himself feeling disappointed. _Be that as it may,_ he thought. The tall stolen gods were looming in the distance as they approached the market, trampling over the muddy Godsway. Each tall statue had a story of its own, he knew, but Jon found he did not care for their stories. He was standing high in the saddle, scanning the lines of the khas for his uncle. _I might’ve missed him,_ he thought.

Viserys was not amongst the riders, though. Jon knew he should not have felt surprised. More often than not, his uncle now spent his days amongst the merchants of the Western Market, drinking wine and boasting. The fires between them had not yet sated, not since the day he come stumbling into the mud, bested by his sister.

Jon remembered rushing into the tent afterwards, the riders of the ko following behind him. Daenerys was unhurt, gasping and flushed, a bloodied medallion belt hanging from her hands. Jon knew she had used it to strike her brother. But she had ordered them all out before they could speak. 

Even so, Jhogo had promised he would find Viserys as soon as they left Vaes Dothrak, and take off his head. Aggo swore to take the man’s ears and give them as trophy, and Rakharo had made an oath vengeance the moment he got his arakh back. Jon knew she would deny all their efforts. _I should’ve known better._

The Eastern Market was a great, sprawling square of land lined with walls of mud-bricks baking in the sun. In the place of white-washed drinking halls were looming grey elephants, lifting their snouts to cry into the dusty air. Jon had never seen an elephant before, and the very size of them took his breath away. Each time they roared, spellsingers and eunuchs joined the call, in voices so high it was close to screeching.

As they entered, Jon could see a dozen slaves leaping off the muddy path to disappear amongst the crowds, carrying bolts of intricate Myrish lace and wools in a swash of rich colours. Was there any place in Essos without slaves? Jon did doubt it. Daenerys had set the pace, riding at the head with Ser Jorah, but khas jutted to stop when she requested to be helped down from her saddle, inspecting a trader’s goods more closely.

Jon watched, sighed, then urged his horse forward and rode to the head of the column. He was not intent on sitting at the back, useless and silent. They would be going through the market for hours, most like, he could at least find something in it for himself.

“Look!” One of the handmaidens cried as Jon dismounted beside them. There were two striped black-and-white horses roaming up the path, led on rope by two men in robes of thin silk. One of them gave a whicker as its eyes came upon his own horse. All Jon could think of was the terror that would unfold here if Ghost was to find him. _It was one thing to send horses into a frenzy,_ he thought, _and another thing entirely with elephants._

Daenerys was leaning over a wooden bench, eating handfuls of murky green noodles from a bowl, laughing. Jon took a step closer, pulling his horse by the bridle with a hand. The trader was watching them with a smile, ready to give them a platter of eggs the colour of dirt. _This one will earn a medallion,_ he thought, as Daenerys began to fumble at her belt to untie one.

Beside her, a stall made of entirely black wood was held by three men in red lacquered masks. Jon found himself tensing, as their red dead eyes came upon him. They watched, unmoving. Jon looked at their legs, at the deep black marks that colored their skin, rising in patterns up their chest and arms. 

“The Shadow Men,” Ser Jorah Mormont’s gruff face suddenly poked over his shoulder. Jon spun on his heels, stepping away from him. The knight wore thin cloth and Dothraki riding leathers, and a hard expression at that. “From Asshai and the Shadow Lands.”

“I know who they are,” Jon quickly shot back, though he could not remember Maester Luwin teaching him of them. He hated Mormont, though, he would not stand idly by and let the man think he could teach him things.

A tuft of dust drifted between them. “They taught you about the far east at Winterfell?” He asked, thumbs clipped under his belt as if he was scolding a child. Jon’s eyes watched Daenerys, as she turned from the stall and began to cross the path.

“They taught you about the far east at Bear Island?” Jon retorted.

That silenced the man. He stared down at his feet, thinking, but Jon did not wait for a reply. Horse in-hand, he stepped back into the column beside the riders of the ko, as they began walk down an isle flanked by creaking stalls and shadowing awnings.

Within moments, Mormont was lost the crowds, and the market was full of new sights. They stopped several times along the way, to stand and gape at manticores in silver cages, black-and-white horses and stalls full of silver held by tall pale men with bald heads and gold rings through their noses.

“Who are they?” Jon asked Duncan when they came across three women in warrior’s garb, rubies buried in their cheeks. They were fierce looking, frowning at any who came near, with empty scabbards hanging from their belts. They looked as hard as any man Jon had seen. _If only Arya could see them._

“I couldn’t say.” Duncan shrugged.  

A dozen different merchants and traders followed, offering scented oils in jars and casks, cloaks and masks and jewels, some in honour and some for exchange. That was the way of the Dothraki; they did not believe in coin. Daenerys accepted some and refused others, those who offered gifts too large to carry. But even then, she took her time with each one of them, hearing their tales in queer tongues that Jon did not understand.

It was past midday, the sun falling to the east, when Daenerys reached down at her belt to exchange a silver medallion for a cloak made of black and white feathers, and realized she had none.

“I-” She said, turning to look at the bald dark-skinned man, “I am sorry, but-”

Jorah Mormont was at her arm in an instant. “Daenerys,” he uttered in the Common Tongue, “a khaleesi does not apologize, he will give you the cloak as a gift, regardless.”

Aggo and Jhogo, silent and fierce, moved to stand at their sides; perhaps hoping to enforce Jorah’s words. Jon stayed where he was, ignoring the hundred different voices that cried aloud in his ears. They would not spill blood in their sacred city, he knew.

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys sighed, but Jon could see her eyes were sure, “I will not take the cloak without them.”

The knight frowned at her words. “Then if you must, exchange a gift you received from one of the others, perhaps-”

“No.” Daenerys silenced him. She looked amongst her riders. “Return to my tent, and bring me another belt.”

None of them moved, none of them agreed. Jon stepped forward. “I’ll go,” He said. They had not known he was listening, he realized, as their scowling eyes found him.

Daenerys nodded her head and said, “Very well. Be quick.”

Jon nodded back and vaulted onto the saddle. He gave the courser his heels and rode down the column, head ducked. He could feel their eyes on him as he went, past the handmaidens and warriors of the khas, Marys and Aerar and the slaves and the traders. Jon Snow was no stranger to eyes.

When he reached the main path, large enough for two wagons to ride abreast, he leant up as far as he could and spied all the muddy tracks that trailed into the market. They spiraled this way and that, curving like serpents. _Which one would be the quickest?_ Men and women passed him with puzzled faces and narrow eyes, then carried on as if he had never been there at all. Here he was nothing more than another stranger.

He sighed, sat in the saddle, and began to knead the burn festering in the back of his legs. He could see nothing, not whilst the market’s dirty hoods stretched above him. _They’re all waiting!_ Jon remembered spotting the temple of the dosh khaleen in the distance, its great domed top poking through the gaps. He broke into a gallop.

He knew the way from there, from the ceremony. The great dome of wooden frames above, the silk pulled away to reveal the stars; the thin air and musky torches, the smell of it. Jon recalled the beat of his heart as he lied to Duncan, the blackness of the alleys as he crept after Marys like some hired knife.  

 _I thought he might’ve seen me, but he never did._ What had he returned for? Why had Duncan ordered him?

The camp was as still as night. Jon reined his horse beside the two black firepits, black beds of ash and burned wood. Dust rose in clouds, carried by the wind to brush against the low-hanging leather straps of the door. Behind them lay a sheet of shadows, too dark for Jon to see inside. That worried him. He dismounted in a rush, black cloak whipping from his shoulders.

… and as he approached, ducking under the leather, the darkness peeled back and silver-gold hair shone in the light of the dim-brazier.

“Viserys,” Jon said, as the straps fell slowly from his shoulders like black leather fingers. His uncle was concealed in the corner, shadowed like some beast from Old Nan’s stories, lingering in the darkness.

His fists were clenching tight, Jon realized and let them slack. His boots ruffled the furs at his feet, making a soft whispering sound. Almost like a breath. Though the room was silent. Dead. Viserys turned to face him. His dirtied silver-gold hair fell in tangles, framing his pale face.

Jon saw the object in his hand. _A dragon’s egg,_ he realized as he took another step forward. The scales were deep black, with crimson swirls whirling as a trail of dusty light poked it through the straps. Viserys pulled the egg back into his shadow, and the colour fell away. Jon spotted the woolen sack hanging from his shoulder, weighed down by… he looked at the open chest. The others, they were gone too…

 “What… what are you doing?” Jon asked, inching closer as it dawned on him. _He can’t mean to…_

His uncle’s cheeks turned as red as the dragon on his breast. Jon had never seen the man look ashamed. After a moment, it was gone. “Doing what I please,” he replied. The stone egg fell from his hand and vanished in the cloth. It landed with a crack of stone on stone. Jon’s heart was beating through his chest. “You will not stop me.” Viserys said.

“They aren’t yours,” Jon’s voice sounded desperate, betraying him. It had cracked in fear like a boy’s, and Jon felt his own cheeks grow hot. _You do not fear him._ “Put them back.” He said more harshly this time.

“Not mine?” Viserys scoffed, “do you think my sister would keep them from me? Ever since the Usurper stole my throne, _I_ have kept that slut alive. I sold my mother’s crown to feed her, did you know that, bastard? A crown! I went from city to city to stay ahead of their knives. She is alive because of me. I won’t be a king without power no longer, I will have these dragons eggs.” 

He had asked Marys what those eggs were worth. _Why, a large army._ The medallions fell from Jon’s mind in an instant. “If she would truly give them to you,” Jon said, his thoughts racing, “then ask her yourself. Let her put them in your own hands.”

Viserys laughed. A sound that rang with frustration and made the silver hair bounce on his cheeks. Only then did Jon notice the sword at his uncle’s belt, as it rattled in the scabbard. _From Pentos, how had he kept it so long?_

“The dragon does not wait,” Viserys said with a spit. “I will take them now. Move aside, I have the sword.”

“You’re more foolish than you look.” Jon said, watching his uncle’s hand drift closer to the hilt. “They would kill you for drawing a blade.” 

“They do not dare spill blood in their sacred city,” his pale hand ghosted against the silver, “I will. The dragon does not bow to savages. Move.”

The thought of a steel swinging at him, even by his uncle’s hand, made Jon wearier than he liked. Yet he was not ashamed to feel afraid. The scar on his hip burned with memory, but Jon did not move.

“I should’ve had you killed long ago.” Viserys said after a silence, “I planned to, and I told my sweet sister. Did she warn you? I did not think so. You could’ve fallen off your horse and broken your neck, by my own hand. But for the love I bore my brother, I decided to let his whelp keep breathing.”

Jon swallowed and found his hands balled into fists again. He clenched them tighter, sneering and said, “I thank you for your mercy then, Your Grace.”  When Viserys noticed the words had not moved him, he shook his head. “Is this it? You spend your time in her trail, dress in their stinking garb and run for her every whim, you think you’ve found your courage?”

He laughed again, and crossed the room in three quick paces. Jon almost retreated, but caught himself at the last moment. He could smell his breath as he said, “Do you mean to take the eggs for yourself, is that it? Your kind are built on disloyalty… my brother gone for that dead Stark whore, and his runt a Usurper?”

The words angered him. Jon leaned closer. Their heads were almost touching. Viserys went on, “or has Duncan whispered promises in your ear? Keep me from my birthright, and he’ll seat you on the throne? He has a soft spot for you, the son he could never have, but he is a liar. You don’t know his secret, do you? Foolish bastard, do you want me to tell you?”

“Stop it,” Jon growled, “put the eggs back where you found them, and go.”

He did not see the slap coming, nor the glint in his uncle’s eyes or the twist in his face until it was too late. His head whipped sideways as Viserys’s palm caught him across the cheek. The slap echoed in the dimness of the tent, over the hiss and crack of the brazier. Jon felt the skin with a nervous finger, almost gasping when it burned.

 _He hit me,_ Jon steadied himself. Part of him might've cried and ran away in fear, the part that had ran from Catelyn Stark and Eddard, from Winterfell.

“Do nothing that will get you killed.” Jon remembered the words that had been spoken to him, and his own promise in reply. _I am sorry, Duncan._

Jon Snow charged.

His hands went for the pale skin of his uncles throat. When Jon felt soft flesh beneath his fingers, he squeezed as hard as he could. Viserys screamed and his eyes widened in response, lilac and full of terror. They stumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses and grunts.

The mud beneath the furs smacked up against them, hard, sending a jolt through Jon’s body. Viserys got the most of it. “Bastard!” he screamed, winded. Yet his uncle got a leg up and managed to flip him, spit flinging from his jaws. Jon went smashing against the furs, a sudden worry dancing over his head, _what if he kills me?_ But then he managed to flip his uncle right over again and get his knees either side of him.

Viserys struggled, an arm reaching up to rake Jon’s neck. The skin tore and bore blood. Jon grabbed the hand and slammed it to the floor, leaning down against it with all his weight. The ends of his fingers were stained with red. Viserys craned his neck towards his face, teeth snapping, and Jon pressed the palm of his right hand down against his cheek. His face hit the ground with a hard thud, his cries muffled by the furs pressed over his mouth. 

He struggled relentlessly against Jon’s weight, boring down on top of him. Jon was groaning with the burn building in his arms. “Stop!” He shouted, but Viserys did not listen. Spittle was bubbling from his lips, wet and bloody. _My brother gone for that dead Stark whore._ Jon let go of his arm, but before it could reach for his face he grabbed the sides of uncle’s head with both hands, lifted it high with all the strength left in him, and slammed it back down against the furs.

Viserys did not scream this time, a small groan escaping his lips as his arm fell slack to his side. Jon’s heart was beating so loud he thought he might scream. Banging against his chest. Instead he found two fistfuls of his uncle’s silk collar, pulled his face close, ready to…

As he came an inch from his face, Jon saw the tears glistening in his eyes. He paused. Viserys’s black pupils moved frantically, eyes that were shadowed with shame, scared eyes Jon had seen in serving boys he might have bested in the yards of Winterfell. _He’s afraid of me…_. Jon’s grip loosened…

… then an arm wrapped around his neck like a snake, clenching tight around his windpipe. Jon recoiled and darted backwards with his feet, but whoever it was they were too strong. _This is the end,_ he thought, as the arm dragged him to his feet, spinning him. Jon stumbled towards the door and tripped over something heavy.

He landed on his arse with a stunned groan and saw Ser Jorah Mormont stood over him, bare chest heaving hard.

“Kill him!” Viserys was already scrambling to his feet, blood lurching from his nose and lip. His eyes were still moist with fear. “Kill him, Mormont!”

His sword sung its coming as Viserys ripped it free. Jon was calm under the flash of steel. He looked down at the blood on his calloused hands, felt a burning trail trickling down his cheek to fall on his tunic.

“Put that away or you’ll get us all killed!” Mormont got Viserys by the arm and untangled the blade from his fingers. Frowning, he held it between almost as if he meant to use it.

The air smelled of blood. Mormont sniffled loudly. “What is the meaning of this?”

Jon saw the cloth sack he had tripped over. A dragon’s egg had rolled from its confines, its white scales tangled amongst the furs. Jon grabbed the sack with a hand, blood smearing the fabric and lifted it for them both to see. “He was taking the egg’s…” he gasped.

Viserys was silent. Jon fell back and ghosted a finger over his cheek, gasping when it stung. “Is that true?” Mormont asked, stepping closer to the Beggar King. Though to Jon, it seemed as if he already knew the answer. “I should take your hands for merely touching them.”

 _We’re as good as dead,_ Jon thought. He looked at the red stains on his hands again, to remind himself it was real. They had spilled blood in the city, and that was death.

He stood, the strength in his legs returning to him, and ran into the light. Leaving Mormont and Viserys behind. Even under the boiling sun, the air felt cold and his cheek burned like fire. The pain was so much it was all Jon could do not to cry, though his eyes were already watering. He found his horse where he had left him and climbed the saddle clumsily, hands slippery and feint.

 _I need to run,_ he thought, _but where?_ He had ran away once already, and now there was nowhere left to go. Jon Snow covered his bloody hands with his gloves and gave the horse its head, starting off to nowhere. _Mormont will tell them,_ he thought. He rode through the crowded paths, head ducked as the people were watching him, and found the Godsway.

The shadows of the stone-wrought gods loomed over him. He wondered if Ghost had sensed his troubles, as he often did. _I hit him,_ Jon thought, _right there._ He should’ve told the others he was taking the eggs, and done only as he was bid. _The medallions…_

Jon looked out at the Horse Gate, tall and fierce in the distance. _I wouldn’t get far,_ he knew. He had no food to last him long enough, or water, nor did he know the way. This was not the north. Mormont would be back on his way to the market by now, to share the news of his folly. Jon gritted his teeth, kicked his horse into motion and made towards the gate.

He got as far as to pass under the shadow of the two long, curling manes before he cursed and spun his horse around. _Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it._ He had fought his uncle, and he was going to face the consequences.  

When he returned he swung down from the saddle, secured his horses reins and began his way. _Keep your wits about you._ What blood he had not wiped away was dried against his skin. He ducked his head low as he crossed between the huts and grass palaces. No one was there who he recognized, or anyone who would recognize him. That settled him, but not for long. Soon enough, one of the khas would spot him. He wondered if they already had Viserys.

 _What is my plan?_  He didn’t know. As he crossed through the alley leading to the hut, a man leapt from the shadows. A man with faded blue hair. His hands got Jon by the shoulders, slamming him into a wooden beam at his back.

“Have you lost your wits, boy?” Duncan said, his angry eyes searching for an answer.

 _He knows._ Jon straightened up and took a moment to settle his breath, arms flat by his side. “He was going to take the eggs… I didn’t think that… are they looking for me?”

Duncan sighed. “Nobody is looking for you. Ser Jorah came to me alone, and Viserys has gone elsewhere to lick his wounds.” He let go of Jon and his arms fell to his sides. “You should’ve found me, immediately. Viserys will never forget this.”

Jon was silent for a moment, remembering when he had made the decision, then said, “I know. What has Daenerys said?”

 _She would never forgive, either. I will be flogged from the khas._ “Did you not listen? Daenerys doesn’t know a thing. And best it stays that way.”

Jon nodded his head, relieved.

“Jorah Mormont has sworn his silence. Perchance he does not hate you as you may have thought. It will not be long before Viserys finds his sister, though. I must calm him before then. At best I could escort him back to Pentos…”

Duncan looked him in the eyes once again. “You will not come to the ceremony tonight. It’s too much of a risk, Jon. You know that, don’t you?”

Jon nodded.

“Good. Tonight you will have my tent. Come now, quickly.”

With that, Duncan turned, blue cloak billowing in the wind. Nobody bothered to offer them a glance as they passed through the crowded thoroughfares, and Jon felt a small part of him grow calm once again. By the time they reached his tent, the sun had fallen deep into the west, turning the sky a deep gold that reminded Jon of the times he would lay on the deck of the Wind’s Wave and watch the sky.

The tent was all the way past the Western Market, but closer to it than Jon was used to, at the very foot of a mountain. Jon noticed there was an emptiness here that seemed alien to rest of Vaes Dothrak. In the place of loud Dothraki littering the paths were wagons and carts being loaded by those who come to sell their wares, their quiet voices sounded almost like those in Winterfell.

Duncan’s lodging was a tent made of stained black cloth, thick with a burning rot smell that came from endless days under the sun. Even so, Jon could not deny the grandness of it, as if it was a pavilion a knight might erect for a tourney. The door was covered with two low-hanging silk straps.

Duncan stopped beside them and ushered him inside. Jon did as he was bid. Inside, he felt as shift occur in him. The tent was dark and dim, no fire or brazier burning in a corner. The air thick with smells of wood and steel and iron. In here, a part of him could believe outside that door was the land of Westeros.

Sleeping skins and furs were stacked in the center, piled atop one another like corpses. In the corners, Duncan had placed two oak-and-iron chests. One he had chosen to use a stand for his sword, wrapped in its tight leathers and cotton to disguise the cross guard.

 _What was so special about the sword?_ Jon thought. He had never seen the man use it, yet it never strayed far from him.

“Viserys has a sword on him,” Jon suddenly spoke up, remembering.

“Jorah told me as such. He took it with him to the markets, I shall I have to find it before things turn awry.” He turned to Jon and gestured at the sleeping mats. “Stay here tonight. Do not leave. No one will find you, so you need not worry about that. I will return once the ceremony is done.”

 _Once Daenerys eats the stallion’s heart,_ Jon thought. Marys had told him the gruesome details of the custom. Part of him was glad to not be attending, even if he was confined in within this cell-of-cloth all night. 

Duncan nodded his head, and for a moment Jon remembered Viserys’s words: _You don’t know his secret, do you?_

He ducked out under the tent, and after a few moments the faint patter of his footsteps faded away.

Alone, Jon frowned in the silence. He slumped himself onto the furs with a groan and looked down at his hands. A piece of skin was hanging from his palm. Jon picked it restlessly until it was rolled up between his fingers. His palm stung but he didn’t care, it was nothing to what Daenerys would go through tonight. Eating a horse heart, it wasn’t natural, it was a thing Maester Luwin would’ve scorned him for even thinking of.

He threw the dead skin through the air, where it patted softly against the oak chest placed above the furs. What could Duncan have to hide?

Jon knew it was a shadow on anyone’s honour to rummage their way through someone else’s things, but curiosity got the better of him. He batted off the furs and crawled towards the large chest. Knelt, he flung open the lid and let his eyes scan the contents inside. Duncan’s garb was laid in untidy piles. Cloth and silk and leather all stacked on top of one another. His dug his hands and began to search, looking for anything.

It was when the chest was near empty that he realized how would he look. _Is this how low I’ve become?_ His hand was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped around piece of white silk, when Jon stopped and returned the things to their places. Ashamed. He closed the lid.

His head fell into his hands, where he stayed a moment. On his knees. Outside he could hear the rumble of voices. _No one will find you._

Perhaps some sleep would do him well. Jon laid back amongst the furs and in short time, he dreamed.

He woke in the mud.

Thick brown dirt covered his eyes, his mouth, his nose. Panic struck his heart, his gasp for air doing nothing but sucking in the muck to clog his throat. He needed help. Something hard smacked against his face and Jon jolted upwards, finding courage through the fear. It was own numb hands, and around him was the grey granite walls he knew all too well.

Winterfell was burning.

Through the plumes of smoke rising into the night sky, he could see the writhing wisps of men. Their screams and the clash of their swords deafened his ears. _They are fighting._ Their bodies were mist, their swords smoke, but Jon felt the cold flow of their blood under his palms as he pushed himself up from the soil. They were burning. Wraiths ran all around him, their faces unfamiliar but their voices close to his heart.

Sweat fell in swirls from his brow, drooping into his eyes and blurring his vision. The library tower was afire, and below its walls Jon’s eyes found Lord Eddard Stark. He ran to him, feet tripping in the wet mud, tears suddenly streaming down his face. His uncle’s neck was red and slick with blood.

Jon went to grab him, but his hands only punctured the mists and closed around the empty air. The man was gone. Crying, he turned and saw Robb fighting against two shadows. Wolves were howling in the air. Jon ran to his brother, but before he could reach him one of the shadows stabbed Robb in the chest. Jon felt vomit rise to his throat.

He fell to his knees, and all around him the shadows danced their play of death. Terror reined. A boy fell from the broken tower, and the sickening crunch made him wretch all over again. The black shadows of the stables were alive with pale orange smoke, fire licking up its sides. The Great Keep was surrounded by a hundred corpses, the carrion crows pecking at their eyes. Jon screamed, and a gate croaked open in reply.

Red eyes poked at him as the drawbridge was lowered, crossing under the shadow of the gate. _Ghost!_ He found his feet and ran towards him. But as he got closer, he realized these were not familiar eyes, but eyes made of blood.

When he woke gasping, Ghost was hovering above him.

He was sweating again, breathing profusely. He scratched at his skin as the sandsilk vest latched onto his chest. _Why do I dream those things?_ Ghost hovered over him and licked his face, in reply Jon ruffled his ears, hands skimming through the familiar white fur. _I’m glad your back, boy,_ he thought with a smile. He nudged the wolf aside and leant over to the nearby basin. His reflection in the water was pale as milkglass. Jon tapped a finger on the surface. The water was cold as ice and he splashed a few handfuls against his face, sighing.

Silence flooded in from the outside. _Is the ceremony over?_ Jon turned to eye the entrance of the tent. The black silk hung still and steady, and beyond it was nothing but darkness. _Duncan said he would come back, so it can’t be._ How long had he slept? Jon dried his face with a cloth and stepped towards the tent flaps, silent so any outside wouldn’t hear him.

As if the gods were watching, Duncan suddenly returned.

Jon stopped in his place, his face suddenly growing warmer. Through the blackness Jon saw Duncan’s eyes curiously shift over him. _He’ll wonder why I’m awake at this hour._

Instead, his eyes fell to the floor. The silence growing even louder. A part of Jon was suddenly nervous, he had never seen him act this way before.

They stood there for a while, not a word spoken between them, before Jon could no longer suffer it and said, “Duncan, what’s wrong?”

The sellsword ignored him and crossed the tent. _Gods, what was up with him?_ He grabbed a nearby waterskin and uncapped it, took a few swigs, slushed it around in his mouth and swallowed.

It was a few moments later he told him Viserys was dead.


	9. Blood Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's two chapters in a single update. I debated it for a while, but it kept feeling like chapter nine just wasn't the same without reading chapter ten right after. Maybe that's because I re-read them so many times in editing, or that chapter nine is on the shorter side. Also, I know this story is currently very much parallel to canon in terms of Dany's story, but it won't stay this way. I just need to get done what needs to be done before a major divergence, simple as that. Thank you all for your wonderful comments!

## DAENERYS

“Your brother is _dead_ , Daenerys.”

At those words, the dark mud walls closed in around her. In the corners of her eyes, they shone red like blood. She could smell foul earth in the air, the stench of dung and sweat and horse that overpowered the jars of scented oil… she could smell the molten gold that Drogo had poured on her brother’s head. It had smelt like blood.

Dany shoved the thought away. No blood had been spilled the night that her sun-and-stars crowned her brother, no blade drawn against him. Even in rage, Drogo did not anger the gods.

She stood with her back to Duncan and the rest, her tired eyes resting on her three dragon’s eggs. She could feel their eyes digging into her. What did they want her to say? Viserys was dead and that was it. Even Duncan couldn’t have denied the monster her brother had become, could he? He had been there beside her the night before, and in the final few moments Dany had seen him rush to stop her husband from crowning Viserys, only for Ser Jorah and the tall sellsword to restrain him.

Viserys had been cruel and evil to Dany, it was no secret. She had ever lived in fear of waking the dragon, and whenever she tried to offer him a kindness – his horse, the clothes she had made for him – he had always spat it back in her face. Why had she suffered it for so long? Duncan was not so blind to have missed it. He knew, and yet had still tried to save him, even if it had meant his own life. _He has known Viserys longer than I,_ she knew, _since he was a boy._ Loyalty was built in his nature.

 _Does he blame me?_ Dany wondered. Viserys had been the one to draw a sword, not her, however Duncan was yet to offer her a word of comfort. Perhaps it was because she had not cried. Not once. Even with her brother’s corpse before her, Daenerys had found no tears or sadness or guilt. She felt nothing but the familiar warmth in her heart for the child growing inside her, for the future conquests of her son. Fire cannot kill a dragon, her brother had said, but he was no true dragon at all.

“It’s all a waste…” Duncan’s words slowly came forward, she felt him turning on Jorah and Jon Snow. There was no one else in the hut with them, “this has been a folly from the start. From the moment you were betrothed, Daenerys. We should go, in the night, and ri-”

Dany turned on him. “Did you not see? Did you not hear their words?” She put a hand on her swelling stomach, they watched her with close eyes. “My son will be the stallion that mounts the world. It was never for nothing.”

Her brother was dead, but the shores of Westeros never strayed far from her mind’s eye. Places like Dragonstone and King’s Landing, imagined from the stories that Duncan and her brother had told her since she was no more than a child. It was her home after all. She knew deep in her heart it was where she belonged. _If I were not blood of the dragon, this could be my home._ She was khaleesi to the greatest khal, had handmaids to serve and strong men to protect her, and that would’ve been enough for any woman… but not the last dragon. 

Her son Rhaego was seed of kings and conquerors too, she could not forget. She needed to only convince Drogo to cross the narrow sea and win his son the Iron Throne, his birthright. Whatever the cost. Like Aegon the Conqueror and like no khal had ever done before. No Dothraki had ever dared to board a boat and cross the poison water, but Drogo must, he must, he must.

She was yet to speak of it to him, though. 

“You followed Viserys into this,” Dany said, looking across each of them one at a time. Her eyes lingered on Duncan. “Can you not follow me now? Now I am khaleesi? I am blood of the dragon too.”

Duncan shook his head. “Daenerys…”

When Jon Snow rose from his seat and met her eyes, she was reminded that she was not the last of the dragon’s seed. _Rhaegar’s blood runs through his veins as well as mine…_ the thought warmed her heart as much as it did send a chill down her spine. Her brother had spoken long and often about the Blackfyre’s and their cursed rebellions against her family… would Jon ever challenge her own son’s claim? He couldn’t. As far as Dany could tell, nobody in the realm knew about his blood but Illyrio and those around her in that very room, and Lord Eddard Stark would not betray the Usurper… nobody would support him.

The innocent expression on his face put an end to those thoughts. Perhaps he would make a useful ally to her. He had grown up in Winterfell, knew its defenses…

Her nephew stared at her for a while before he finally spoke. “Pentos is the last place I would return to. Illyrio… I never trusted him.” Duncan turned to face him, seeming almost betrayed, or shocked at his words. “I say we stay here, with you. At your side, Daenerys.” 

He sat back down upon his stool, resolute with his words. Dany found herself smiling like a little girl. A great rush of relief flooded over her, and there she knew she could not afford to have him turn against her. He was right about the magister, and he was too valuable to Illyrio and any schemes he might conjure.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah Mormont was next. The tall knight bounded to his feet and looked her deep in the eyes. “In Pentos, I swore my sword to Viserys. But my loyalty has always been yours. I would never leave you.”

“Good.” Dany replied with a smile. “Thank you, Ser Jorah.”

All at once, their eyes seemed to fall on Duncan. Silence lingered. He looked down at each one of them, without a word, his jaw tense and deep violet eyes giving nothing away. “I would remind you all,” he began in a bold tone, his eyes meeting hers, “that I raised you from a child. And I would never abandon you, Daenerys. Never.”

In that moment, she had never loved him more.

Until with a sharp breath, he suddenly turned and left.

Stunned silence filled the room, as the leather door straps fell rigidly back to their place. _He blames me,_ she thought, _he must._ A part of her wanted to run after him, or cry. Yet she was khaleesi. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin high and said. “When will word of what happened here reach the Usurper?”

She had never previously thought of that, she realized. She had been so consumed with her own future…

The morning wind whistled into her tent. Dany felt it stinging against her eyes. Slowly, Jorah got to his feet.  

“My brother’s death has reached every ear in Vaes Dothrak,” Dany said. She did not doubt it. There were no secrets in the khalasar. “The merchants, they must know as well.”

Something about her tone unsettled her. It was chilling to know that the Usurper would hear of her brother’s demise, and Tywin Lannister and Eddard Stark... they would think her broken, and useless without Viserys to guide her. Instead, Dany wanted them to fear her. Nobody had ever feared her before.

“Even so,” Jorah began, “it will be months before word reaches Robert’s ears. But be sure, it will.” He scratched at the gruff beard on his chin.

“What about the magister?” Jon said, looking at them both for answers. “The narrow sea lies between us and Robert. But not Illyrio.”

Dany wanted to give them answers, but there were none. It had gone beyond her control. _They mustn’t lose faith in me._ She stepped forward and said. “Please, have trust in me, I beg of you. My brothers promised we would go home… and though he is dead, I have not forgotten that.”

“Yes, khaleesi.” Jorah Mormont replied solemnly. With that, they turned and made their way out through the door straps. Afterwards Dany summoned her handmaids. The hour was still early, she knew, and she was yet to dress for the day. She had felt fat and clumsy in the time they had spent at Vaes Dothrak, as her son grew by the day and she found it harder to move. Simple tasks like mounting her horse or dressing had become hardships; when once she would’ve hated having them flutter about her, she welcomed the strong and practiced hands of Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah.

They washed her clean and dressed her in loose sandsilk. Dany wanted to feel the breeze on her skin. Jhiqui styled her hair in a long intricate braid brushing down her back. Then, to break her fast Dany supped on an oak platter carrying fruits that the servants had gathered. A dozen berries of red and green and deep blue, and a cup of cool water to wash it all down.  

Outside, she found Drogo. Her sun-and-stars was surrounded by a dozen men already ahorse. Amongst them, Dany spotted his bloodriders, Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo. Cohollo offered her a smile. He was always kind to Dany. Further onwards, waiting patiently was Khal Ogo, flanked by his son and bloodriders, each one of them readying for the hunt.

Her husband’s ink-black hair cascaded over his shoulders and well past his waist. Dany loved his hair. It had never been cut. He had never known defeat. The long curls brushed against the silver, gold and bronze plates of his medallion belt.

“Moon of my life.” She treasured his raspy voice. He came upon her in two swift steps and pressed his lips upon her brow, hands cupping her cheeks. Dany smiled and touched at his wrists. “This day I will go to the grass and hunt hrakkar.”

The hrakkar, Dany knew, was the great white lion of the plains. Every day, the others taught her more and more. “There are many lions to hunt over the horizon of the black salt sea, my sun-and-stars. Golden lions with precious jewels in their manes and great castles for their lairs.”

 _The Lannisters._ She watched his face closely for an answer, desperate, hoping, but Drogo only seemed to dismiss her words. Ahead, Qotho gave a large grunt of impatience. His narrow eyes were fixed on Dany. “I have no need of jewels from lands beyond the black salt sea.” Drogo said.

“It is prophesized that the stallion who mounts the world will ride to all ends of the earth.”

He smiled and shook his head, as if he was putting down a child. “I will hear no more of this, Dan Ares.”

With that he turned, mounted his red with all the grace of a king and galloped away. The others all fell in behind them. Daenerys watched him through the haze of dust he left behind, a pit of disappointment bubbling her in her stomach. But she still had time to convince him, she knew. If he caught the hrakkar, his joy would be fierce, maybe he would hear her out.

In the meantime, Dany decided to gather a litter and visit the Western Market. A great caravan train had arrived overnight, four hundred horses, from Pentos, under the command of a man called Byan Votyris. She liked the smells there and the people. A hundred different scents that reminded her of home, and the house with the red door. On her way, she might think of a way to sway her husband, too. _If only I could get him on a ship…_

Had Drogo had been beside her she would have ridden her silver to the aisles. For even a woman bearing a child was expected to show strength when with the khal. But as he was away hunting, her servants carried her over the Godsway and towards the stalls in a small litter adorned with cushions and covers. The day was bright and the sky a deep blue, and a steady breeze brushing through the red curtains kept her cool.

As they approached, Dany could already smell the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, mingled with others she recognized from roaming the Free Cities when she was a child. As well as what seemed to be a thousand voices different voices crying over one another. It made her feel warm. Did such a place like this exist in Westeros? Were the smells so rich and the people so plenty?

She did not think so. There were no Usurpers or Kingslayer’s in the Western Market. Her brother had always said the north in particular was a cold and bland place, and those inhabited it had no blood but for the ice running through their veins. They had bent the knee under Aegon the Conqueror, ending their line of kings, but even now they were enemies. _Viserys is dead, but his words are not._

“Doreah,” Dany called aloud.

After a moment, her handmaiden’s pale face appeared at the curtains. “Yes, khaleesi?

“Is Jon amongst the litter?” Dany asked.

Doreah did not have to take a second glance, it seemed. “He is, khaleesi.”

“Please, bring him here. And inform the others I would like to walk.” She offered a smile and Doreah’s face disappeared back behind the curtains. No sooner did they stop moving, the servants carrying her grunting to a stop. Irri and Jhiqui arrived to help her down from the litter, each of them gripping a hand. As Dany dropped from the shade, a sigh escaping her lips, she treasured the feeling of sunlight burning against her skin. Targaryen’s were born with heat in their blood.

All around them, the people of the market writhed like a swarm. If she did not have the men of her khas keeping a clear wide berth around her, Dany wondered if she could’ve managed a breath. She saw the caravan guards wandering around the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics of quilted yellow cotton; merchants crossing sand-and-dirt paths in dresses of Myrish silk, in one hand a jewel and the other a bag of rattling coins; small children with tanned skin and black almond-shaped eyes ran underfoot. Dany smiled.

Doreah soon returned with Jon Snow in hand. Their faces shadowed by the grass awnings that stretched above from stall to stall.

“Khaleesi,” she said, bowing her head slightly.

“That will be all.” Dany said. She turned back to join the others. Jon Snow remained.

He sported the same clothes she had often seen him in, of late. In place of his old city wools he had donned a painted leather vest with the sleeves cut to the shoulder. Tight leather straps banded his arms and a belt hugged his waist. Dothraki riding breeches clung tightly to his legs. _He has changed as I have,_ she thought, _her brother had never done the same._

“I used to love playing in the bazars when I was a girl,” Dany began, when the others were far back enough to not hear their words. “It was so alive there, all the people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at... though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything... well, except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers... do they have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I don’t know.” Jon replied with some trepidation. He eyed her with curiosity, though he tried to make it subtle. Dany could understand he was confused as to why he had been summoned. She had never dared to speak with him in the past, not properly. That had been when her brother was alive.

“Are there markets like these in the Seven Kingdoms?” She asked, offering a smile.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I think so. Markets are everywhere you go, aren’t they? But I would think none of them are as same as the other. I… you’re better asking Jorah, or Duncan. I only ever knew the north, my queen.”

“The north… merchants came to the north to sell their wares?”

“None like this,” Jon laughed slightly, gesturing at those around them. “Outside of Winterfell, though, there’s a place called Winter Town. It was near empty the last I saw, it always was in the summer…”

He paused for a moment, eyes forward. She had sensed a sudden warmth in his voice, and a slight smile dancing along his lips. The kind that came to you when recalling a fond memory. “My brothe- well, Robb and I, we would sneak down there sometimes in the night. To the alehouse’s or taverns, and we would return in the early hours of the morning before we could be discovered. I couldn’t tell you why, but being surrounded by castle walls bored you sometimes.”

Dany tried to imagine it, growing up in a castle, with a brother who loved you and walls to protect you. It didn’t sound like the desolate place Viserys had described. It was all she had ever wanted as a child, and a large part of her still yearned for it even now. She found she was laughing too. “Illyrio’s manse was the closest thing to a castle I ever knew… though I was born on Dragonstone, I don’t have any memory of it. Willem Darry smuggled me and Viserys away before the king’s men could reach us.”

“I know,” he replied solemnly. “After Robert had sent Stannis to seize you.”

“He would’ve killed us, no doubt. As he did Aegon and Rhaenys. And as he would’ve had you killed too, had he known you were my brother’s son.”

Jon seemed to take a moment to contemplate her words. “A good man should not punish a child for the sins of their father… Daenerys, may I ask you, how was Viserys killed? Why?”

Dany felt a sudden hardness come about her. He hadn’t heard already? She kept her eyes forward, following the endless train of men and women running back and forth. She could see her brothers face again, the way he had smiled that night when she told him that he would be crowned. That had torn at her most, after it was done. “You weren’t there, were you?”

She could not remember ever seeing his face amongst the crowds of the feasting hall. “No.” Jon replied slowly.

Perhaps it had been for the best, she knew. A bitter hatred for Jon had festered deep within her brother, and seeing him might have only made things worse. Yet what was worse than death? “He was drunk on the wine from the merchant’s stalls…” Dany began, “and he carried a sword, the one Illyrio had borrowed him. He came into the hall, hardly standing, and demanded that Drogo repaid him for what he had bought. For me. We all tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen. He sealed his fate. Drogo poured molten gold over his head.”

Silence filled the space between them as they walked side by side of one another. _Will he go against me too?_ Jon let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Daenerys. I saw him earlier that day, when you sent me to get the medallions. And he was trying to take your dragon’s eggs.”

Daenerys was not surprised by his words, Ser Jorah had already informed her of that matter the night before… Jon did not seem to know that.

He continued. “We fought-”

Dany interrupted him _._ “Whatever happened, nobody forced my brother’s behavior that night. He brought it upon himself.”

_We are not to blame._

 

## JON

As Jon tucked his thumbs under the nook of his belt, watching Daenerys greet a merchant further ahead, he couldn’t deny that her words had brought him some relief. Since Duncan had returned to his tent and informed him of his uncle’s fate, Jon had felt an odd sense of guilt nagging at his mind.

 _I was defending the eggs,_ he reasoned to himself. Even if Ser Jorah had not appeared, he could’ve never allowed him to walk away with them. Yet now the man was dead, it seemed useless to mull over their past feuds. Dead men hold no grudges, he had heard Theon jokingly say once.

But it was clear with anyone with the eye for it, that Viserys would not so easily be forgotten. His death weighed most on Duncan, he saw. The subtle sadness in his eyes and hollowness of his tone. Even though Viserys was not a good man by half, he supposed that Duncan had known him as child. And loved him, to stay by his side for so long.

Jon had no love for the man, but Duncan at least deserved his sympathy. _Without him_ , Jon wondered, _where would I be_? Viserys would’ve thrown him aside the moment he came to Illyrio’s doorstep. _Or perhaps I would have died on the streets of Pentos._

“I half expected him to banish me,” Marys had said to Jon earlier that morn, as they broke their fast over spiced horsemeat and soup. “Or kill me. I suppose it took some bravery for us to hold him back, and I don’t doubt the Dothraki saw what he did… don’t give me that look. Viserys was an evil bastard and got what he deserved. I wasn’t going to let Duncan die for him.”

Jon had chewed over those words. As bad as they seemed, there was more truth to them than he dared to admit.

A sudden slam against his shoulder brought Jon out of his thoughts. Turning, Jon saw it was one of the eunuch guards that prowled the bazar like some silent beast. He was bald of head and narrow of eye, with tanned skin peeling in a dozen different spots. He looked back at Jon with angry eyes and was met with the bared fangs of Ghost.

The direwolf crept forward at Jon’s feet, eyes narrow, an eerie silence about him that could unnerve any man. However, the eunuch kept walking and soon vanished into the crowds, lost amongst a hundred faces. Jon was starting to hate the markets. They were crowded and narrow and stank worse than Winterfell’s stables. They left him sweating and clammy and underwhelmed. _I’ve seen everything they have to offer_ , he knew, yet still he would find himself tracing their aisles one day after the other.

He wanted to leave Vaes Dothrak, to cross once again under the two rearing stallions that marked the Horse Gate and go anywhere else in the world. Since he had woken that morning, every moment he was here left a foul taste in his mouth. As if the smell of death lingered in the air. Even he knew none of the unbearable merchants could weather the Dothraki for so long, it was the news of a Targaryen that had brought them here in their hundreds.

“Are there any winesellers that arrived?” Daenerys was asking of Ser Jorah as the two of them approached.

“Yes, khaleesi. Further ahead.” Jorah replied, taking a step aside. “If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek out the captain and see if he has letters for us.”

“Very well. I’ll help you find him.”

“There is no need for you to trouble yourself.” Ser Jorah glanced away impatiently. “Enjoy the market. I will rejoin you when my business is concluded.”

With that the knight almost ran away from them, ducking under awnings and crossing three paces at a time. Jon watched him with close eyes. Was Jorah hiding something? He had hardly ever seen the man so uneasy before, or desperate. And what letters may have arrived? It had been months since he had last heard any news from Westeros, or Illyrio for that matter.

“Come.” He heard Daenerys say. The litter began to stroll onwards once again, and Jon legs followed unbidden. He watched Jorah’s back for as long as he could before the man disappeared behind a corner.

The smell of grease and sausages and onions filled his nose, as the stalls went from jewels and goods and armour to food and spices of any kind. Jon had never been one to fuss over what he put in his mouth. In the north, the food had been simpler. Here, it was some great treasure.

They stopped before a wizened little woman stood over a hot firestone. Her hands were dancing quickly over the steaming pans, practiced and sure.

“These are the kind of sausages I meant.” Dany was telling her handmaidens as the woman passed them over to her on a platter. Jon looked away, back at where Jorah had gone, then back at Dany. They were eating the sausages now, laughing and burping, grease smudging the corners of their mouths. Jon looked back down the aisle once more. Something was telling him to go.

“Jon?”

He didn’t know how long he had been staring, but when he turned back he found Daenerys holding one of the peppered sausages to his face. The stench of it was so strong it made his eyes water. “Another time.” He said with a small smile, waving it away, “give me a moment.”

With that he turned and started running. His feet clattered on the sand and stone, kicking up small pebbles with each step. Ghost came at his heels, a shadow of white fur and fangs. He felt surer with the direwolf by his side. He followed Jorah tracks, ducking under arms and crates, earning curses in many a tongue. Jon did not look back, and took the same corner Jorah had taken. To his surprise, and his dismay, it opened into a vast merchant square. Where stalls far grander than Jon had seen before were placed in rows around a center plinth, and a dozen more people were prowling between them had been before.

Jon sighed and saw the great tall structure hunched in the distance. It seemed more a castle than it did a caravan. _It must take a dozen axels to hoist that thing,_ Jon thought, _and three times as many horses to pull it._ Its rose high like the back of some great beast burying its head into the dirt. The entire thing was laden with orange, swirling silks and tall pointed flags of rainbow cloth that snapped proudly in the wind. That was where the captain would be, with the letters and Ser Jorah Mormont.

He walked slowly this time, as to avoid any odd glances. He already got enough of those. A small man in naught but breeches was singing from his place upon the plinth. His voice high and sweet like that a girl’s. That was until his eyes came on Ghost. His words slowly stuttered to a nervous stop. Jon couldn’t help but hold back a laugh. Though there was much and more of the queer sort to be seen in the bazars at Vaes Dothrak, none of them had ever seen the like of a direwolf before. That much Jon knew for a certain.

At the base of the caravan was an ascending flight of wooden stairs. Old, worn and creaking with the weight of those who were scattered out upon them. Dothraki children ran around wildly chasing one another, running over the steps with wide grins on their faces. A dozen merchants were walking up and down them, some stopping to speak to another and others rushing away in a sullen silence. Jon ran up them three steps a time.

He was met by the long stares of the guards in their copper helmets who stood lining the entrance, bearing their empty scabbards. That was the odd thing about Vaes Dothrak, no one could carry a weapon. Here, a guard was no different to any other man but for their garb. Jon scanned the entrance.

Jorah was not amongst the crowds, he was sure after he checked each of them twice. Jon was not surprised. He knew little and less of where the captain would keep the letters, and yet he knew he would be somewhere further inside, perhaps at the very back.

A hand wrapped itself around his arm, hard and firm. Jon spun on his heel.

“What are you doing here?” The dour face of Jorah Mormont rose before him, coming inches from his own. Jon could smell his breath in the air. A stench of horsemeat that lingered between them. _The Others take him._ Jon flinched out of his grip.

He straightened up his vest. “I came to see what word Illyrio had brought.”

Jorah gave him a tired look, eyes suddenly downcast. He sniffed loudly, rubbed his beard, looked over his shoulders and took a step closer. “Dark wings, dark words. I must say. Robert offers lands and a lordship for any man that may kill Daenerys and the child.”

 _How?_ Jon thought. A reward for murdering a girl and her child? But Eddard was Hand… he would never allow it to pass. He ripped the parchment from Jorah’s grip and read the words for himself. It was a letter meant for Viserys. 

After he was done, Jorah took the letter from his fingers and slipped it back into his pocket.

“We need to get back to her.”

As much as he despised the knight for what he had done, Jon knew neither of them wanted to see Daenerys and her unborn child come to harm. How had Ned allowed the king to issue the order? It couldn’t be his doing… not when he had risked all for him as a mere babe. It brought a certain uneasiness to Jon’s thoughts to know that any of those around him, the hundreds of them, could be eyes for Robert Baratheon, reporting back to him and watching their every move.

_The letter made no mention of me._

They found Daenerys beside the stall of a wineseller, as they had expected. Jon felt his own wariness brewing. She stood at the front of her khas, with her handmaidens shadowing her sides and the riders of her ko circling her closely.  

“You honour me, ser.” Daenerys was telling the merchant.

Jon doubted the man even knew what a knight was. He was a small and meagre looking man, skinny with a stub nose and hair the colour of rotten straw. Was that malice in his eyes? Or was Jon simply seeing what he wanted to see, what he expected…  as if he sensed Jon’s thoughts, Ghost let out a growl at his feet.

“The honor is mine.” The merchant replied as he rummaged about in the back of his stall. Jon looked for the tremble in his hands, the dagger in his belt. There was none. He lifted a small oaken cask from his stock, burned onto the wood was a cluster of grapes. “The Redwyne sigil,” he said, pointing, “from the Arbor. There is no finer drink.” 

 _The letter. “Be ever on your guard,” Illyrio had said._ A bastard could see things in the faces of others, their true intentions… whilst his mind told him this merchant was an assassin in truth, his eyes showed nothing more than a simple wineseller.

“Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this back to my litter, if you’d be so kind.” The wineseller beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask. 

_Poison._

He stepped forward, fists clenched, when Jorah Mormont’s voice suddenly rose. “No.” At once, Jon knew what he was doing. He looked between the merchant and Daenerys. “Aggo, put down that cask.”

They exchanged a small glance as the rider brought back the wine. Jon walked slowly to the side of the stall, where should the merchant try to flee, he would catch him in his tracks.  

Jorah went on. “I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller.”

The merchant did not respond kindly. Jon found the tremble in his voice he had been looking for… an honest man did not falter. “The wine is for the khaleesi, and not for the likes of you, ser.”

“Do it.” Jon demanded with venom in his voice, taking a step closer to the stall. Ghost let out a snarl. The merchant’s eyes widened in fear. He hesitated a moment, but no sooner did he rush for his hammer and knock the plug from the cask.   

“Pour,” Jorah commanded. The young warriors of her khas had begun to move, circling them. Waiting as they were, frowning with dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“Do as he says,” Dany said in a harsh tone when the wineseller had not moved. The hammer was still raised idly in his hand, his eyes trembling back and forth between it and the khaleesi and the cask.

“As the princess commands.” He said in a slur. He lowered the hammer, lifted the cask with both hands and carefully filled two tasting cups. Jon found his whole body tensing as he watched the wine fall from the cask, rocking unsteadily.

Ser Jorah lifted a cup to his face and held it firmly. He was careful to not spill a drop as he sniffed at the wine. _What good would smelling it do?_ Jon thought, but he could hardly expect the man to taste it. Jorah frowned. The wineseller smiled. “Sweet, isn’t it?” he said, looking Jorah deep in the eyes. “Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn’t the finest, richest wine that’s ever touched your tongue.”

 _A blunt effort._ They would not be tricked. Jon was not surprised when the knight offered it back. “You taste it first.”  

“Me?” The wineseller laughed. “I am not worthy of this vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor wine merchant who drinks up his own wares.”

His smile was amiable, yet Jon could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. Any moment, the man would break. He would be ready.

“You will drink,” Dany demanded, cold as ice. “Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat.” The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup... and grabbed the cask instead.

Before Jon could move, the wooden barrel was hurled through the air towards Daenerys. His breath caught in his throat, he watched as Jorah flung her aside and the cask exploded against his shoulder in a thousand wet splinters. Terror erupted as gasps rose up all around them. Jon turned his gaze back to wineseller, who had leapt his stall and was barreling towards him.

Without hesitation, and without a sword, Jon tackled him to the ground. They smacked against the dirt with enough force to take the air out of any man’s lungs, and the world seemed to freeze for a moment. Jon grabbed him by the collar, watched him struggle for his breaths as Jon’s weight clamped heavily against his stomach.

“You would murder a girl an unborn babe…” Jon spat. 

People were suddenly moving again. Jon felt a hand Jorah’s hand pull against his shoulder, easing him away. All around them men and women and children were watching with wide eyes. By then a dozen caravan guards had appeared, led by an odd-looking man with a bristling blue mustachio that swept up to his ears.

He seemed to know what had happened without a word being spoken. Jon nudged Ghost away from them. “Take this one away to await the pleasure of the khal,” he commanded, gesturing at the whimpering form of the wineseller. Two guards hauled the man roughly to his feet. “His goods I gift to you as well, Princess,” the merchant captain went on. “Small token of regret, that one of mine would do this thing.”

They watched them carry him away, his feet dragging against the mud, weak and lifeless. When he turned, he saw they were already loading Daenerys back into the confines of her litter. The servants took their places at either side, heaved her into the air and started on their way. Jorah Mormont was her shadow, eyeing all those who were still looking upon them. Duncan would need to hear about this. What did it mean now that common merchants would try to kill her?

They waited in all but an unsettling silence until the khal returned. Jon had found Duncan as the sun fell, and they debated over what choices they had left to them. To return to Illyrio would mean safety within the walls of his manse, yet they would be back where they had started… their own choices seemed to make no matter, though, for later that night, when Khal Drogo was told of the attempt on his bride’s life, he declared in fire and fury that he would strike down the man who had given the order, and seat his son on the Iron Throne his grandfather had once sat.

Two days later they departed from Vaes Dothrak. Heading west.


	10. Lamb Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: In this chapter there's explicit violence and rape. Please read at your own discretion.

## DAENERYS

Dawn was breaking the moment Khal Drogo’s outriders returned.  

Dany had been half-asleep, her head resting upon her sun-and-stars chest when Cohollo burst loudly through the tent flaps. Even in the darkness, and through a lidded gaze, Dany could see the excitement in his eyes. “Drogo, blood of my blood,” his voice was rough, callous, the scrape of stone on stone. “Ogo sacks the nearby town of the haesh rakhi, he is ripe for the taking.”

Her husband was on his feet in an instant, the furs slipping to reveal his naked body. His pure black hair fell down in a braid well past his buttocks. Longer than any man’s in the khalasar. It had never once been cut. He had never known defeat. Dany found herself warming at the memory of him inside her, and smiling at the thought of them conquering the Seven Kingdoms to win her son the Iron Throne.

“Rouse the men.” When her husband barked the order, she knew she would get no further rest. Cohollo darted from the tent. Drogo had told her he would come upon Ogo and his khalasar, and what he intended to do with them. With slaves, selling them could buy ships to cross the narrow sea, hire sailors to sail them. And only with slaves. The Dothraki did not trade no other goods.

Ogo’s khalasar would be put in chains. Though only days earlier they had sat side by side at the high table, sharing mares milk and laughing, that had been in Vaes Dothrak, and there all feuds were set aside.

On the Dothraki Sea, Drogo would rip out Ogo’s khalasar root and stem.

Her husband strapped on his medallion belt. “Today, I bring you Ogo’s head.” He said in the Common Tongue, a fierce determination dripping with each word. Dany did not doubt him. 

“I shall treasure it.” She replied with some venom as she sat up. The cold began to prickle at her skin. Meagre victories over another warring khal did not sate the blood of the dragon. Only birthing her son, sailing the narrow sea and mounting him on the Iron Throne would be enough for Daenerys Targaryen. Only when her enemies were destroyed.

Even so, there was nothing she could do or say to stop Drogo from gathering his riders and going into battle. A khaleesi did not question her khal’s decisions. She watched him put on the rest of his garb, horsehair breaches and gauntlets shaped from 0leather, until he darted out of the tent like a child chasing a hare. Only then did she summon her handmaidens.

Daenerys saw it fit that she dressed lightly. For she knew once she mounted her horse, there was no returning back to the confines of her tent. Her clothes and her chests and would be loaded back into the wagons for the days ride. Dany would be expected to travel with the warriors of the khalasar before they reached the town of the Lhazareen. Then, she could only view it from afar, not knowing if her husband was alive or dead.

Irri styled her hair in a rigid braid falling down her back, whilst Jhiqui and Doreah gathered her warm riding leathers. As they readied her, she knew she would’ve preferred to have dressed like a warrior woman herself. Like Visenya, with pieces of mail and leather and golden bands for her arms. Yet her pregnancy would make her look foolish in any such clothes.

As she emerged from her tent, she saw the khalasar was frantic with movement. Sleeping mats were being rolled and tents dismantled, thousands of the men had already gathered their horses and arakhs, riding in circles and hooting out their cries, kicking up clouds of choking dust. Fathers, sons, uncles and cousins. Dany would’ve been surprised if Ogo’s khalasar had not already heard their coming. 

The sun was brimming the distant hills, basking the sky with a pale glow. With their shouts in her ears, Dany found it impossible to consider a defeat. _How could they lose?_ Even so, as the cold sent a chill up her body and Dany rubbed the numbness from her hands, some part of her feared for Drogo’s life. The little girl in her that remained.

Behind a dozen mounted riders whirling past in a fury, Dany smiled to see Ser Jorah approaching her. He too was ready for the fight. Already armored in the steel and surcoat made of deep green cloth. The colour of his house, she knew. He carried his great helm in hand.

“Khaleesi,” he bowed his head. With each step, his armour rattled loudly.

“Your sword.” Dany pointed. Blood and gore was smeared across the edge of his blade, fresh and shiny. Dany swallowed deeply, she could not stare for long. 

“Ah, khaleesi. The Dothraki do not take well to a man in armour. After I had donned my plate, a boy thought it fit to name me a coward. Well, I name him dead.”  

He sheathed his sword back into its scabbard. The paleness of the morning had turned his cheeks red. “How many fighters does Ogo have in his khalasar?” Dany asked.

“Far fewer than your lord husband’s.” Jorah replied in a bold tone. She had not seen Duncan and his companions coming - nor Jon and his wolf – until they were a mere few steps away from them. She hardened at his presence. They had not spoken since the morning after her brother’s death.

Yet Duncan gave a small smile when she met his eyes. Much to her surprise, he too was dressed for a fight. Though he sported less than half the steel plate that Ser Jorah Mormont did. Instead, he wore the armour she had seen him in a thousand times. Two steel pauldron’s covered his shoulders, hidden beneath them clasps that suspended his long blue cloak. It was more black than blue now, she supposed. Covering his hands and arms were iron studded vambraces. She watched them as he fiddled with his belt. Then he unsheathed a dagger.

“I didn’t expect you to join the fight.” Daenerys said. “To kill for Drogo.”

Duncan scraped his dagger along the small oilstone in his hand. “I will kill only for _us_. As I always have.”

“I know.” Dany said. Even though she knew her husband would most like prevail without Duncan’s help, she could not deny he was a formidable fighter, and she was glad to have him by her husband’s side. Daenerys pitied the families of any man who would soon be unfortunate enough to come against him.

“After the battle is done, Daenerys. Please, let me speak with you.” He gave the oilstone back to Aerar.

Daenerys nodded to him.

More riders were circling the camp now, and some had even begun to move north. The distant stomp of their horses slowly grew fainter.

“We should be on our way.” Jorah announced, lifting his great-helm over his head. He slapped open the visor.

“Yes,” Duncan said. “Gather your khas, Daenerys. If you must come with us, you will be well guarded.” Duncan slipped on his black gloves. “Jon and his wolf will stay by your side.”

Jon’s head rose at that. “What?”

Duncan only gave him a sharp look in return. _He wanted to fight._

Duncan swiftly turned him away and walked him back to their horses, all the while speaking words into his ear that Dany could not make out. Irri brought forward her silver. With their help, she mounted the mare and promptly shouted the men of her khas.

“Aggo.” Dany turned to face them. They were already mounted upon their horses, waiting patiently. “Jhogo, Rakharo. I order you to join the fight and protect my sun-and-stars. Lay down your life for your khal, if you must.”

“Ai, khaleesi.” They responded. One after another they kicked their horses into motion and galloped down the field, kicking up tufts of dirt as they went. Khal Drogo already had his own bloodriders by his side, but Dany thought another three wouldn’t harm him.

Dany would not be in harm’s way, she knew. Only if the gods were cruel and her husband was struck down…. that would not happen. Dany glimpsed from her high hill the thousands of Dothraki riders galloping north. The beats of their horse’s hooves made the ground tremble beneath her. She could not see her husband at its head, yet she knew he was there all the same. 

When she kicked her silver into motion and began to descend the hill, the rest of those behind her followed. Eyes watched her as she went. Eyes of those who were women, maimed or too young or too old, too sickly to go into battle. Who would stay with the camp and the slaves and join them afterwards, mounting the wagons and carts to bring down their goods.

They rode a league or two, the sun slowly rising, before stopping at the mount of a hill bank, as the warriors ahead rode on.

“Stay here,” Duncan said, offering her a quick glance. “Come no further until you know it’s safe.”

“I will.” Dany replied.

Then he spurred his horse onwards and the others did the same.

Daenerys could see the shadowed shapes of the Lhazareen town brimming the horizon, small, yet more prominent than the grasslands that surrounded it. There was smoke rising from within its walls. When she turned, she saw Jon Snow was staring too.

Her handmaidens were laying mats across the grass behind them. Dany trotted over to him. “You wish you were with them, don’t you?”

He did not look her way. “Of course I do.” Jon shook his head. “When able men sit back and do nothing, they’re craven. I can fight, but at every chance he orders me to do otherwise.”

Dany was still for a moment. “It’s because he cares for you, you know. He does, I can see it. Knowing you’re safe will-”

“I know, Daenerys.” Jon interrupted, “I know.”

He turned to look at her slowly, then at the handmaidens. Dany looked back at the town in the distance. It was so far away, she realized. A moment passed, as the distant sound of the horses gave way to the wind.

“But Duncan’s judgement can sometimes be wrong.” She turned back to him. “And he will never change unless you show him.”

“How can I from here?”

“Not from here, only down there. I am khaleesi, and I say you can go.”

 

## THE MAIMED SWORD

Marys clenched his jaw to stop his teeth chattering together.

The pain was almost unbearable. His ears were ringing, his head swimming, his hands loosely touching the reins. Yet he did not stop riding. He had lost Duncan and the others amongst the thousands as they had descended the hill. In his place, surrounding either side of him, were Dothraki savages howling their coming, arakhs raised high.

It was just his luck to be fighting in Dothraki feuds, he knew with some bitterness. For no just man who lived would come away from this battle with a smile on their face. The Dothraki were savage in all things, it was known, but nothing were they better at than killing. Than stringing out the guts of their enemies and raping their women, murdering their children and burning their homes. Marys did not have to be reminded. _Oh, no._

 _Yet here I am._ He spotted Duncan’s blue cloak again as the lines began to part, and rode up beside him. The land around them had slowly turned from dirt and grass and hunting tracks to growing fields of rye and lentil. Yet in the place of crops were corpses. Ogo had left his mark. The Lhazareen did not deserve to have their village destroyed, Marys knew, yet in all places of the world, the men who had swords killed those who did not.

Ahead, peering through the smoke and over the heads of Drogo’s riders he could see the distant walls of the town. They were made of solid mud caked in place by the sun, black as night with specks of small green grass poking through them. They cracked easily, though. Along the walls large crevices had formed were Ogo’s men had destroyed them, the mud and dust falling in piles.

“Stop here,” Duncan shouted at the top of his lungs, reining his horse to a slow beside a burning farmers hut. The ceiling had collapsed, crushing the farmer inside. A small brown hand poked through the mud, a dead finger pointing at him. All around them, the other riders charged onwards. Screaming. Roaring. Desperate to kill. Aerar came to a stop at his left. 

 “Let Drogo hit them first, and take as many as he can.” Duncan’s breath was short and hurried. They turned and watched Drogo barrel towards the rear of Ogo’s men. Some had turned to make their defence, charging quickly to their own death, and others were still unsure on what was going on around them. It made no matter. When the two sides met, screams of the dying men and horses filled the air.

“Drogo is not as foolish as he may seem.” Duncan observed, his horse whickering as Drogo’s men took Ogo from four sides. The riders had split into separate lines and attacked from every entrance of the village.

“The Lhazareen will find no escape…” Marys said slowly. His scarred chin itched and he scratched it without thought, then it hurt.

“I pray they have quick deaths.” Aerar said in his quiet tone. When you were fighting amongst them, in thick of it with sword and spit, it was easy to forget about all the killing. When a man fell before your sword, you moved onto the next one. Without thought. Watching it, though, from a far distance, Marys found unsettling.

“How will I know Drogo’s men from the others?” Aerar asked, his eyes on Duncan.

“You won’t… kill any man who wants to kill you. Let’s go.”

Duncan snapped the reins first, Aerar next, and Marys followed with a roar of his own. His horse kicked up clumps of mud and they descended the small bank in a wild rush.

Marys let the smell of blood fill his nostrils, and the clash of steel and the screams fill his ears. _Better to let it in, embrace it, caress it as you would a lover, then spend your energy to keep it out._ They were all killers here, after all.

His right hand was itching to reach for his sword, but the others hadn’t yet, so neither did he. The three of them galloped into a line, riding abreast with their leader at the center. Duncan’s blue cloak was flapping widely in the wind, his hair a flowing streak of faded blue… seeing him so eager for a fight gave Marys more courage than he was like to admit.

The bulk of the fighting had moved inwards into the town, he saw. Drogo had crushed them. The battle seemed already won. Yet as they approached the broken wooden gate between the two crumbling walls, he saw the stragglers remained, those who had broken through Drogo’s lines and were fighting desperately for their lives. Marys unsheathed his sword.

The first one to come at him was no more than a boy. Even in the suddenness of their horses rushing together, hooves crashing against the ground, Marys could see his braid fell shorter than his elbows. The fool boy had his arakh raised high, and before he could lower it Marys slashed the edge of his blade across his face in one swift swipe. His nose took the brunt of it, hanging by a fleshy thread as he went hurling into the dirt, blood bubbling between his fingers.

Marys rode on. Slowly the line they had formed began to break as the fighting grew thicker. He steered his horse right, where the plain fields and open squares were plentiful. He did not like to be trapped. Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Aerar reaching for his throwing axes. He hefted one from his saddle, threw his arm back and sent it spinning through the air. It stuck its edge into the horse of an oncoming screamer, and mount and rider alike went tumbling to the ground.

Then his own battles were upon him. The pain in his jaw quickly fell away. All Marys could feel was the leather hilt of his sword burning against his palm and saddle between his thighs. “Die!” One of Ogo’s riders yelled as he charged at him. _A poor choice of last words,_ Marys thought before he stuck his sword in the man’s throat.  

Then when he went down, choking, there came another. Marys ripped his blade free and spun wildly in the saddle to block the arakh rushing to his head. Just in time. He felt its sharp edge scraping against his brow, as desperate for his blood as the man who wielded it. They stopped there for a moment, blades locked as men and horse died around them; then Marys punched him in the gut, wrenched his sword free, and slashed wildly at his throat until the man’s horse took off in a frenzy.

That was closer than he liked. He gave Blackblood his heels and spurred him off down the muddy road ahead, steering his horse through the corpses. The soil squelched loudly with each step, Blackblood’s hooves were soaked wet with blood. A hail of arrows flew over his head and landed somewhere near the distant mud huts and grass hovels, earning a dozen cries.

It was hard to only the kill the men who were trying to kill you, Marys realized, for when you were finally close enough to see where their loyalties lied, their blades were only inches from your throat, their arrows already notched in their bows. Marys swung his longsword in wide arcs as he went, cutting down any man who made for him, sending them to join their dead horses on the ground. When he reached the end of the path, he quickly turned his mount around to go and find Duncan and Aerar amongst the fray.

He got as far as the end of the path before the familiar whistle of arrows came through the air. Closer this time, he realized, as black shafts came darting past his head. Fired at him, not over him. He ducked his head and hugged Blackblood’s neck, praying, until his world suddenly flipped over and his face smashed against the mud.

Black soil filled his mouth. And blood, not all of it was his own. His head was rattling with the impact of the fall, his jaw suddenly screaming in pain. Perhaps he had broken it again. A dozen different horses came stomping closely to his head, dazing him, and before he could turn his ungainly body another two dead men had joined him on the ground. Their faces were smeared with horror. Marys spat, leant up and let his instincts take control of him.

Turning, he gritted his teeth as his shoulder wracked in pain. It was then he saw the long arrow shaft poking out from Blackblood’s eye, and another in the horse’s snout. _Another dead horse,_ Marys thought. He had liked this one, but had no time to mourn him. He swiftly untangled his legs, numb from the weight, and reached for his sword.

While his fingers clambered through the dirt, a rider ahead spotting him moving and swung his horse around. _He means to end me,_ Marys knew as the man spun his arakh in a wild fury and came galloping toward him. He lunged for his sword again, his fingers scraping the hilt. It was no good.

Death had all but took hold of him, his eyes slowly closing, his body tensing, memories of home leaking into his mind, until Ghost leapt to his defence. The white wolf came bounding through the mud and sprang so high his teeth found the soft flesh of the rider’s neck. They went spiraling to the ground in a twist of blood and hair and growls. Marys let go of his breath.

The fighting around him had grown even scarcer. For that he was relieved… “Marys!” A familiar voice suddenly called through the distant clash of steel and horses and men. The song of war. _It can’t be…_

Jon Snow came galloping around him with a concerned look about his face.

“Boy!” Marys tried to leap to his feet, but his legs betrayed him and he stumbled onto a knee, nearly falling again. _I am fool,_ he thought, _that bastard wolf should’ve let the man take me._ Jon’s sword was unsheathed and its long fine edge already coated with blood.

“Are you hurt?” The boy asked. He quickly reined to a stop and leapt from the saddle, rushing to give him a hand. Marys looked around them to make sure nobody would soon attack, and when he saw it was unlikely, he took the help with a smile.

“No, my horse took the arrows, I took the fall.” He tapped a boot on Blackblood’s still dead head.

“Jon!”

Though he could not see him, Marys could taste the fury in Duncan’s voice. It almost made him shiver, never mind the boy. No sooner did Duncan come trenching through the mud and corpses with long steps and a stern look on his muddied face. His blue cloak hung steadily from his shoulders, ripped and bloodied from the dead and dying. “I told you to stay with Daenerys. You were to take her to safety should we lose.”

Jon Snow stared at him tiredly. But before he could say a word back, Aerar leapt between them. “What does it matter?” he suddenly yelled at the top of his lungs. It was a shock big enough to nearly take Marys off his feet. “He’s here now. We get on with it!”

None of them spoke afterwards, but Marys took their sudden march forwards as a sort of silent agreement. The gods had saw it fit to take the three of their mounts, so Jon Snow joined them on foot, leaving his own horse behind. What was left of the battle raged ahead. Marys watched the boy’s face as they approached, expecting to see a tremble in his lip, a twitch of fright in his eyes, yet the boy only looked like he was ready. Like he was brave.  

Marys could not deny the pride that filled him.

The fighting was almost done, Marys noticed, with more men running away in terror than towards them in fury. Yet as with all wars, it was not truly at an end until the last fighting man was put down. Two dozen of Ogo’s men still fought, most of them on foot. They eyed the four of them as they approached, and gripped their arakhs all the harder.

Duncan leapt forward, sword at the ready, and met the first of them. And from there he cut through them as a dagger does cheese. _With ease._ A single swipe of his blade would send them slumping to his feet. Each time his sword finding the gap in their defence. _What little defence they have._ It was a slaughter.

The fools kept coming at him, desperate for the glory and the trophy they could earn, and the clever ones stayed well clear and came for them instead.

Ghost bounded forward with fang and claw. An arakh came swinging at Marys through the haze, and he put his own sword in the way. The smash of steel rang loud in the air. Blades wedged together. Marys could see the terror in his opponent’s eyes when Jon Snow’s sword took his trapped arm clean off at the elbow, blood spurting in a fountain as he fell to the ground.

Marys felt a thrill rushing through him. He looked at Jon, gave a small nod, and the two of them went rushing forward. In ones and two’s and three’s they came at them, screaming, flashing their blades like the beasts they were, and every one of them was sent to the dirt.

By the end of it, so much blood had covered his face that Marys could hardly see. He could smell the familiar stench of piss and shit. _It’s always worse when there are as many dead horses as there are men._ Marys let his arse slump to floor, dropping his sword as the others came to a still around him. It landed with a thud.

He leant over and grabbed the vest of a nearby dead man, using it as a cloth to wipe his face. The blood painted the vest a deep red.

The bear knight was approaching them. “They are routed and fleeing,” he was saying, removing his dinted great helm, “but still as many as ten thousand captives.”

“The Dothraki would make prisoners of their enemies?” Jon said, his breath still frantic. The boy had ended many lives today, Marys knew, their blood scattered in blotches across his face and clothes. _He even saved my own._ He felt like praising the boy. Dothraki warriors were no easy opponent, yet they seemed to have made short work of them.

_Most of them already knew they were dead men._

“Not prisoners,” Jorah replied., “but slaves. This way, Drogo can sell them in return for ships.”  

A hushed silence fell, as the five of them all seemed to get breaths back at once. The air stank of blood and death. Aerar began to chew on his sourleaf loudly. Every yard of the Lhazareen town was decorated with a corpse, and for every corpse were three arrows. Each one of them soaked in blood and shit.

Drogo’s men were huddling about them, taking their boots and cutting their braids, small bells jingling in their hair. Far away in the huts, a woman and a child were crying desperately. Marys pitied them.

“We should send word to Daenerys that the battle is done.” Duncan declared. Marys didn’t move. He’d spent enough time laboring after that girl.

“I’ll go,” Jon insisted, sheathing his cleaned sword.

Duncan shook his head. “No, you stay. Aerar, find a horse. Do you know where she is? Good.”

Aerar never questioned his orders. They watched him leave.

“You fought well, Jon.” Duncan said when Aerar’s footsteps had faded. It seemed they were all waiting for the ‘but’, yet it never came. Instead Duncan gave him a small smile and a nod. “Our teaching has not been for naught, has it, Marys?” 

“It seems that way,” Marys said with a grin of his own.

 

## JON

Jon watched the heavy axe fall. The dying man’s groans came to a sudden end as it sliced clean through his neck. When he had lifted the axe free, the small man grabbed the severed head and threw it towards the nearest pile. Others did the same. _Jaqqa rhan,_ Marys had named them, mercy men who disgraced the dead and ended the suffering of the dying.

The town was still rapidly burning. Long plumes of choking smoke rising into in the air in thick black clouds. Nobody seemed to notice, or care. Dothraki were no strangers to plunder and fire. Khal Drogo’s riders were herding the survivors and captives through the town, whipping them as if they were cattle, putting an arrow through whoever failed to walk or tried to run. The Lhazareen who had survived, for better or worse, were ripped from their broken homes and made to join the rest. Mothers and children crying…

They waited for Daenerys at the broken gate - Duncan and Marys to his left, Ser Jorah to his right - where company was scarce but for the carrion crows and rabid dogs that had arrived to feast upon the corpses. Jon had never seen so many dead in one place, or so many dead at all. A few of them he had put there himself. This was no pitched battle, he knew, yet Duncan had said he fought well, and Marys had commended him that Dothraki were no easy opponent.

The sun had risen high when Daenerys arrived. She rode at the head of her long trail, Aerar by her side, her handmaidens and her khas slowly following behind. From when they had peaked over the road, they seemed to take a thousand years to finally reach the gate. Yet Jon noticed Daenerys was taking her time to look around at the remnants of the battle. Over the farmers’ fields and huts, the streams that ran crimson. Was there revulsion in her eyes? From the gate, he could not tell.  

“Your lord husband awaits you within the town,” Ser Jorah announced when she finally reached them. It did not take him long to spin his horse around and begin riding beside her.

“How does he fare?” she asked.

“A few cuts,” Ser Jorah replied, “but a great victory was won today. Come, we shall take you to him.”

For the khal, what great victory it was. Khal Ogo and his son Fogo had stood no chance, both falling to his blade. The men of their khalasar killed, fled or enslaved. Their eyes had been so firmly set on pillaging the Lamb Men in their homes and temples that before they could even reach their for arakhs or mount their horses, most of them were dead.

Yet the men of Drogo’s khalasar were no better. The thuds of their plodding horses mingled with the screams of babes and innocent men and women, the crack of whips and spit of the fires that burned deep within their homes. Jon could not simply abide to watch them slaughtered.

Jon rode up beside Duncan, who looked around the remains of the battle with hard eyes. “Why must they kill the lamb men? It was Ogo who fought back.”

“These men and women erected their homes on the Dothraki Sea,” Duncan said, “they have always known the risk.”

And so it went on. They left the broken gate and began crossing the town. Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. Jon looked away, his anger growing.

“I’ve told the khal he ought to take the slaves for Meereen,” Ser Jorah was announcing. The girl wailed in pain. “They’ll pay a better price than he’d get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten-”

The girl screamed.

“Make them stop.” Daenerys said, suddenly coming to a halt. Her eyes found Ser Jorah, and them him and the others.

“Khaleesi?” Jorah replied in a baffled tone.

“You heard me,” Dany said, “stop them.”

Jon needed no more convincing. He whirled his horse around, as the girl still screamed, and galloped towards them. _This could end in blood,_ he knew. He gave a high whistle, and Ghost came bounding beside him.

By the time they reached them, the first man was done with her, and second man had taken his place. The bells in his braid chimed with every thrust of his hips.

“Stop.” Jon said in Dothraki as he reined beside them. A few of them turned. He lunged down from the saddle. He did not doubt they understood him, Marys had taught him enough words by now. “The khaleesi will have no rape.”

He pointed at Daenerys. The rapers followed his finger, looked at her, then laughed in his face. “I do not take orders from that bitch!” he spat. The others laughed louder. The man smacked a hand against his cock, a stupid move, for that was where Ghost then plunged his fangs.

A great crunch cracked the air. The man went screaming to the ground. Crying, gasping. Though the others hid it well, Jon saw the fear in their eyes as they watched him writhe in a pool of his own making, Ghost’s fangs buried deep. Jon unsheathed his sword. Blood still stained the snarling dragon’s head on its pommel. The men went for their arakhs. _I may die._ He took his stance.

Before the closest man could lunge for him, an arrow came spiraling through the air and took him in the throat. He fell to the mud, choking on his tongue. The others stared in rage, but by then Aggo and Rakharo and Jhogo were upon them, with Duncan and Ser Jorah at their rear. 

So instead, they quickly mounted their horses and bolted. All the while the man atop the girl continued to plunge in and out her. So desperate for his own pleasure he was blind to what had occurred around him. Duncan suddenly barged past them on swift steps, dagger in hand. He grabbed the man’s braid and yanked his head backwards, then slit his throat. The blood went flying on the girls torn dress. Her screams came to an end. Jon slowly reached for her.

She flinched at his touch, tears in her eyes. “Safe,” Jon said. “It is safe.” Whether she understood his words was a mystery, but eventually she came with him all the same. Mormont passed him his own blood-soaked cloak and Jon wrapped it around her. They walked her back to Daenerys. She was shivering, stiff with fear.

“What do you want done with her?” Jon asked.

Dany’s eyes found her handmaidens. “Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not a have a rider’s look, perhaps she will not be so frightened of you. The rest of you, with me.” She spurred her horse onwards.

It did not take long before another girls wail broke the air, as they crossed the narrow twisty lanes lined with headless corpses. Dany did not have to order them this time. They knew what they had to do.

They were five men this time, dismounted and watching and laughing as the two girls were raped. Ghost ran over on quick paws and hamstringed the first. The man was dragged screaming to the floor as the wolfs jaws made a bloody mess of his leg. The riders of the ko surrounded the other three, whilst Jorah wrapped a mailed hand around the last man and threw him to the dirt. When he made for his arakh, Aggo’s arrow took his between the eyes.

They took the sobbing girls back to Daenerys. Though they had saved them, Jon did not see any kindness in their eyes. _How could they be grateful? We save them from a fate we brought upon them ourselves._ They would not forget that their families and friends laid butchered around them, their town a burning wreck. They were suspicious of them, wondering if they had claimed them for some worse fate. 

The others along the paths had begun to see what they were doing. When Ghost came towards them, his snout dripping blood, some men climbed their horses and rode away, cursing. Others reached for their blades, so intent on defying Daenerys that they would give their life. Either way, they claimed all the women that they came across, whether blood was spilled or no. By the end, a long trail of them followed at Dany’s back.

One old woman had thanked them in the Common Tongue. A man had mounted her over a caked mud well, which he was later thrown down. She was holding her ripped and bloodied robes to her chest, but still she settled below Dany’s horse and bowed her head. “Thank you, Silver Lady.” Was all she said before she joined the others.

Finally, they came upon Khal Drogo. He had seated himself below a mud temple, rising high upon a mound of earth. Beside him, a pile of heads festered, taller than he was. The smell was almost unbearable, and the buzz of flies so loud he thought there might’ve been thousands of them.  

The khal himself did not seem to care. Jon had not seen him during the battle, yet he knew had been at thick of it. There was evidence of that in the arrow that gaped from his upper arm, the blood spattered across his face from the men who he had felled, and the more bells that rang loudly in his braid. Not only that, his left nipple had been replaced by a long curving gash than ran up his chest. Red and sore.

Daenerys dismounted and ran to him. Jon did not hear their words when Duncan suddenly pulled him aside. The man lead him behind the crowd of Drogo’s warriors and beside a fallen hut.  

Duncan eyed the slash on Jon’s arm. “Does it hurt?”

Jon had near forgotten about it. He looked down at his arm and inspected it. It was no more than shy of two inches, only quite deep. “No.” he replied.

Duncan clicked his tongue. “It will now. Go to Aerar, he knows to how seal a cut like that.”

He was right. The more Jon thought about it, the more it stung. “I could do it myself,” he said. Luwin had shown him once or twice whilst stitching a wound he had taken on the training yard.

“Well, he knows how to do it properly.” Duncan gave him a resolute look. Like he was unsure what do with him. “Marys told me you saved his life today.”

Jon remembered it clearly. He had only just ridden through the shattered wooden gates, after cutting down his first opponent, when he had seen Marys crawling through the mud. He shook his head. “Ghost saved him. I wouldn’t have made in time…”

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “Should I go and thank the wolf instead? That beast is wild, sure, but be grateful for it. He savaged a great deal of men today. When they fear him, they’ll fear his master too. Anyhow, I didn’t want to pull you aside in front of the others, not when I could see the pride in your eyes.”

“Pride?”

“Yes. Pride. You fought well, make no mistake. Only a fool would feel no pride. Yet, I did ask you to watch Daenerys…”

Jon sighed. “You did, and I held my tongue and waited on the hill. I would’ve stayed there till the battle’s end. But Daenerys herself saw the truth of it… she didn’t need me there to protect her. Marys did, like you said. If I hadn’t come, he’d be dead.”

To his surprise, Duncan didn’t fight him. Instead, he glanced down at his dirtied boots and said. “So, this is how it will be. So be it, boy. Every morning and every night we’ll practice with sword and shield, spear and lance. You have a trained arm on you, no doubt, but there is still much for you to learn.”

Jon nodded in agreement, a smile on his face. They had sparred already, often at night or in the day time of Illyrio’s manse, but not lately. Not in Vaes Dothrak where no one was permitted to carry a blade. It would be good to learn from him again. His skills seemed to go beyond that of a sellsword.

“Now, go.” Duncan demanded. “Find Aerar.”

Jon turned without another word. His teeth gritted as a shot of pain crawled up his shoulder. He felt a cold river of blood running down his arm. He had taken the wound from the first rider he encountered. _Only a scratch,_ he reminded himself. Yet even shallow cuts could fester, he knew, once the rot got in them.

Jon recalled a guard in Winterfell who had sliced his bare foot against a rock, and left it so long without the maester’s knowledge that by the time he was sent to Luwin it was too late. The whole barracks had reeked of death and rot, and Luwin had taken his foot, in the end. Jon still remembered the night the guard’s screams filled the castle.  

Passing through the crumbling town, he found Marys and Aerar sat languidly upon the belly of a dead horse. Respect for the fallen did not seem to be at the forefront of their concerns. They eyed him as he approached. Marys was taking long swigs from a wineskin, slushing it around in his mouth before swallowing. Whilst Aerar chewed sourleaf, a red tinge to his lips as he sat gazing silently at the floor.

Jon stopped before them.

“What is it you want?” Marys grumbled with a burp.

“I took a wound in the fight.” Jon said, showing them. “Duncan says you can tend to it, Aerar.”

The short man was on his feet in an instant. He grabbed Jon’s arm with one hand and with the other began to prod at it. Jon sucked in his breath as a cold pain ran down his arm and into his fingers. “Should be easy enough. It will need cleaning, and closing. Marys, get me my tools.”

After a sigh, Marys rose to his feet. “Yes, master.” He said sardonically. He took a step closer to Jon, inspecting the wound. “It will scar well, that one. Scars in battle may make a man of you yet.”

With that he began to slowly walk away, every footfall as unsteady as the last, his green cloak scraping the ground. Jon wondered just how much wine he had drank.

It did not take long for Aerar to close and treat the wound, and all the while Marys sat beside them regaling him with stories of his time within the Second Sons. Some stories Jon had already heard from his lips, others he had not. All the same, the man went on. He had left the Second Sons when Mero, The Titan’s Bastard, had become their leader. He had sunk their reputation so low that even the Free Cities would no longer employ them. Afterwards, he has crossed from city to city, lending his sword to anyone willing to offer the coin. Until finally he had found Duncan in a port of Volantis. The two of them had worked under the pay of a nobleman, and had not strayed far ever since.

“It is done.” Aerar announced as he leant back. Jon gave his shoulder a shrug. The skin of his upper arm felt taut and stiff, but the sting had near but gone.

“Thank you.” Jon stood.

Around them, the riders of the khalasar had begun to mount their horses. The crack of distant fires deafened by the plod of horse hooves. The Dothraki did not stay long in the places of their plunder. Jon was glad to be going, too.

Jon turned to Marys, as the riders began to stream down the nearby path. “You’ll be wanting a new horse.”

Marys chuckled. “Yes. How long, I ask, before an arrow kills me and not my steed? This is my third in five moons.”

“Perhaps the gods favour you.” Aerar said as he gathered his tools.

“Gods?” Marys got to his feet. “The gods are selfish cunts.”

They both started to laugh. That was how Jon left them.


	11. Into The Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than average, but the revisions made in that time were absolutely worth it. Thank you Doublehex for the invaluable beta work!

## JON

Khal Drogo was dying.

Beneath his thighs, Jon’s horse moved forward on its own accord, mindlessly following the trail the khalasar had set. The land around them offered no more than sand and boiled dirt, an empty horizon Jon Snow had seen a hundred times before... yet staring at the khal, he had never seen a man look so drained, so sick and pale as he appeared.

Large, bulging bloodflies had circled him in swarms for the last few leagues, endlessly crawling and sucking at his skin. The sight of it made Jon’s own leather vest itchy against his chest, but the khal had not gone as far as to notice a single one of them. _They stick to him like he’s already a corpse,_ Jon thought with a grimace.

Riding beside him, often giving her husband worried glances and calling his name, was Daenerys. No matter how loud she beckoned him, Drogo gave no sign of even hearing her… _if he dies, then we’re done… and so is she._ Jon chewed on that thought for a moment, considered the weight of it. He had never stopped to think what Drogo’s death would do to her, so soon after Viserys. _I wanted him dead the moment I laid eyes on him,_ he remembered, _but she has grown to love him_. Whatever was left of her from the girl he met in Pentos, Jon saw little of it.  

 _I need to find Duncan._ Jon looked over his shoulder to gaze at their huge trail, the thousands of riders and carts and captured slaves writhing in the dust. Amongst the black braids and brown stallions, Jon’s eyes searched for faded blue hair. He couldn’t see it anywhere.

Desperately, he shot one last long glance at Drogo atop his red. _Move, you bastard._ Jon’s eyes bore into him, anxiously waiting for the khal to suddenly wake from his stupor, grip his reins with full strength and spur his horse onwards in a blaze of fury, hooting and roaring. But in place of what Jon hoped for, instead remained the shallow clop-clop of his horses hooves as the khal’s empty eyes stared forward.

Jon knew he was lost.

He took a quick breath. _How long before he dies truly_? Feeling a sudden weight on his shoulders, Jon began to wonder if every man in the khalasar was waiting for Drogo to fall from his saddle. Waiting for him to die so they could take the power for themselves. _Drogo will be lucky if he lives till sunset_. Jon looked to the sky to see how far away that was.

_Not long._

Jon heard the man’s horse before Marys’ voice rose in the air. “What are you staring at so foolishly?” the sellsword asked, sounding dry as bone. _Are there tears in Dany’s eyes?_ Jon could not see from the sand rising in the wind, dust that made his own eyes water. He scratched them and did not spare Marys an answer, nor a mere gaze. Instead he kept watching. Though the man sometimes seemed half-simple, it did not take long to follow Jon’s eyes.

“The khal,” Marys’ tone was a chilling one, “he’s gotten worse.”  

“Yes,” Jon agreed, though quietly. He did not want his words to alarm Daenerys, or anyone for that matter. “He’s a dead man. You can see it...”

At those words, Marys grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, forcing them to face one another. He looked across at the khalasar – there was a good distance between them and the main trail -  then back at him. “Don’t speak such things aloud. Find Duncan… when the khal dies, we must be ready.”

Jon nodded. _He’s right, we must be ready_. _For what, though?_ That was the question he feared. Jon snapped the reins and spun his horse around. _To fight, to run?_ Drogo’s strength bound the khalasar together, Jon knew well, when he died the men had no one to follow. It would be a slaughter, and the khalasar would devour itself in less than a day.

Khal Drogo reeled from his saddle.

Jon staggered to a stop, his breath caught in his throat. The khal smashed against the ground, _hard._ Without an arm to cushion the blow, his face and body collapsed in full-force with the dirt. A cloud of flies and dust erupted around him, yet there was not a single grunt or cry of pain, only Dany’s wild sob. The khal had not felt it. Jon watched breathlessly, waiting.

_This is it._

Daenerys was by his side in a heartbeat, on her knees, brushing the flies off his chest. Jon felt he should’ve gone to her, but to do what? Tell her that her husband was as good as dead? Counsel her to send for the healers? A part of him wanted to weep for her, and another unsheathe his sword for the chaos of what was to come.

Out of the haze, the bloodriders came galloping towards them. Jon dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing the snarling dragon’s head. He trusted the three of them least of all, for their vicious ways and eyes full of hate. _I would stand no chance against all three,_ he thought, until he spotted Duncan galloping up behind them.

The man reined up beside the others, watching as Dany yelled out commands through her tears. Qotho, the angriest of the three, suddenly spun his horse around and began a dash back down the trail. Jon heard the curses spewing from his mouth. _The first to turn cloak?_

Watchful, Jon flung down from his saddle and helped them lift Drogo from the dirt. Dany ordered the slaves to build the tent with haste, and so they set the poles and sandsilk over the dirt as quick as they could. _This is no place to make camp,_ Jon thought as they steered the khal through the door flaps, _but what choice do we have?_ They could not go on, not if the man could not ride his horse. When they settled Drogo atop the rushes, Dany ordered the men of her khas to guard the door. “Admit no one without my leave,” she told them. “No one.”

“Daenerys,” Jon blurted when they the others were out of the door. Drogo’s body was still and silent between them. She looked at him, waiting. _He’s dying,_ he wanted to tell her, _he’s lost, he’s dead and we need to run, to go, to survive._ Her violet eyes were full with tears. “I’ll go with them.” Jon said instead, sighing.

Outside, the khalasar was turning frantic, as tens of thousands of riders were forced to a stop, most of them not knowing why. Four slaves came running towards the tent, carrying a large copper tub between them. They groaned with its weight, their pale arms straining. The khas parted to let them through the doors. _Baths will not save the khal,_ Jon thought.

It did not take long for Jorah Mormont to find them. He swung down from his saddle and ran over to them on long, desperate steps. His voice was quick and breathy when he said, “Where is the khaleesi?”

“Inside,” Duncan nodded towards the tent. He was clamping an iron vambrace over his wrist, “with the khal.”

Jorah rushed forward, but stopped himself before he could reach the door. Slowly, he turned back to face them. “How does he fare?” He asked, in the Common Tongue, “does he live?”

Jon’s eyes fell to the dirt, then to Duncan. The two of them looked between one another before Jon said. “For now.” With every moment that passed he could feel death’s constraints closing in on them. From his side, Marys slapped a wineskin against Jon’s chest, giving it a shake.

Jon shoved the man’s arm away. “I don’t want to drink.”

“You look like you need it,” Marys insisted, “drink, it will calm your nerves.”

 _He’s right._ Hesitantly, Jon grabbed the wineskin and drank until his throat burned with the bitter sweetness of it.

When Jorah finally reached the door flaps, Rakharo blocked the way with his arakh. The steel shimmered in the sunlight. It was darker than castle-forged steel, Jon noticed, thinner yet more brittle. “Tell the khaleesi I beg entry,” Jorah’s words came forth in a rush. Aggo, clutching his bow over one shoulder, was the one to turn and duck back inside.

After a few moments, Aggo emerged from the shadows and gave the smallest of nods. “And you, the Andals” he said as he pointed a finger, his eyes coming onto Jon and Duncan. Apprehensively, Jon followed them inside.

Trapped between the sandsilk walls, the scent of rot hung so thick in the air it made Jon’s eyes water. _The battle had smelt the same,_ he remembered, _all those corpses_. Drogo was lying across the floor beside the copper tub. If not for the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, Jon would have thought him a corpse too. Each breath the khal took cracked its way up his throat, and his glassy eyes stared emptily up at the roof of the tent.

Tears were falling down Dany’s cheeks as she rushed towards them. “Please, help him. For the love you say you bear me… help me now.”

Duncan was silent, measuring. Jon bent over to lift her from her bruised knees. She was so light. “Get her some water,” Jon ordered the maids. But so frozen with terror, they did not move. Shivering, Daenerys looked so weak, so drained of colour and life. Jon had seen her frightened before, but this was not the same.

She looked into Jon’s eyes, and in her wide black pupils he saw her fear. He saw himself staring back at her, silent and dumbfounded. A single word would’ve been enough to shatter her. “Can we save him?” She asked, her voice as faint as a child’s.

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. _I don’t know what to tell her,_ he thought, for the truth was not what she needed to hear. Jon took a breath, lifted her further from the ground and said. “By the gods, we’ll try.”

He felt her hands grip his arm all the harder as she clung on for strength.

They watched Duncan kneel beside the khal. He looked at the mud poultice on Drogo’s chest, sniffed the air, then met Dany’s eyes. “Send away the maids.”

With a single gesture, they went running from the tent. A small breeze lapped across his brow when they passed through the tent flaps, the smell fading, and for a moment Jon had never felt anything as half as sweet. Then it was gone.

“Jon,” Duncan’s words broke the silence, “pass me your dagger.”

Jon wondered why he didn’t use his own, but wordless, he unsheathed the blade and passed it over to him. Valyrian steel held a finer edge than any ordinary steel, he supposed. Duncan used the dagger’s edge to cut away at the rotting, black leaves and dried mud from Drogo’s chest. It cracked, oozed and crumbled as his deft fingers pulled it back. When he pried away the last chunk of the poultice, cutting at the tendrils of hardened puss that bound it together, the foul smell of rot grew even thicker. Jon nearly retched as it swam to the back of his throat.

Blood leaked from the wound. Black and thick and corrupted. It seemed to be the only thing the khal felt as it slipped down his ribs, as he shivered and thrashed. “No,” Dany whispered as tears ran down her cheeks. “No, please, gods hear me, no.”  

Duncan got back to his feet, passing Jon his dagger, “Daenerys, he’s gone. There’s no coming back from this. I’m sorry.”

“No, he can’t die, he mustn’t, it was only a cut.” Dany was back by Drogo’s side again, taking his hand in her own. “I will not let him die...”

“A small cut,” Jon watched the puss gape from the wound, thick and black and awful. _It has festered._ “Who healed him?”

“It matters not.” Duncan said. He ran a hand through his faded hair. The blue dye between the strands was so old it was purple, and the rest a smoking silver. “We don’t have the time to sit here and watch him die, Daenerys. I’m sorry, I am, but we need to go.”

She looked up at him, trembling. “Go where? Where would we go? Why should we run? I am khaleesi and I carry Drogo’s heir, he will be khal once my husband…”

Duncan sighed. “The Dothraki do not believe in heirs and blood, sweetling, only strength. We shall go back to Pentos. We’ll find a ship, or ride there if we must. Yes, Illyrio is cunning and treacherous, but for a year and half we lived safe within the walls of his manse. Once we get there, we can plan what to do next… will your khas come with us?”

“Yes, I think…” Dany replied, doubt dripping from her every word. She clutched her swollen belly with one hand and her husbands with the other.

Ser Jorah’s voice was full of caution. “If we are going, then we should go now.”

“I will wait outside.” Jon said.

Stepping out from the shadow of the tent, he nearly fell to his knees as the cool air flooded over him. Sweat clung to every inch of his skin, and Jon gritted his teeth as he kneaded the sickness in his stomach. He found his waterskin and uncapped it. After a few swings, he gave himself time to breathe. The heat was astounding _._ Tents and sleeping mats had already been assembled around them, stretching for miles. The sun was falling to the horizon, the sky slowly turning the colour of blood. _A red sky is a bad omen,_ he remembered Old Nan saying once. _They were just stories._

Qotho and the other bloodriders were suddenly rushing out from the tent, barking curses. Jon had never seen them enter in the first place. Jhogo and the others swept past them, leading the khal’s horse inside. _What are they doing?_ Duncan came rushing through the flaps. “Find Ghost,” was all he said before running to his horse. _He will find me,_ Jon knew as he made for his own.

He began to loosen his sword from the straps that bound it to the saddle. The bloodriders did not make idle threats, and Jon knew he would need it by him if it came to blood.  

A crowd was beginning to gather around them, the air full of moans and howls and curses. Jon did not have the patience to heed them any of them. The straps that bound his sword would not come lose, so Jon ripped out his dagger and cut them instead. In a single slash they snapped, and he grabbed his sword and ran back to the tent door. In the corner of his eye he saw Ghost bounding to his side. _Good,_ he thought.

“Stay here,” Jon said to the wolf, squatting down beside the door. “Do you hear me? Stay.”   

The wolf hesitated, staring at the blackness inside. But then as if in response to his words, Ghost sat on his hind legs and looked at the masses gathering around them. A white wolf standing vigil to the shadows at his back.

Everything was happening at once. When Jon turned he saw Jhogo and Aggo digging a firepit, heaving as their shovels cracked the soil; Marys and Aerar were spinning back and forth on their horses, keeping the others at bay; the handmaidens were crying, the children wailing, the men shouting. Duncan came marching through them, armored some, his greatsword slung across his back. Jon looked for a longsword at his belt too, but it was nowhere to be seen.

When Dany came stumbling from the tent, Jon could see something was terribly wrong.

“I had to save him,” she said in a weak tone, her eyes sore and red. Jon wrapped an arm around her and led her aside. There were too many people watching, praying on her weakness. Everything was falling apart, but he had known this would happen. Daenerys clung to him for strength as they crossed the side of the tent. They made it halfway before Jon faltered to a stop, as a boy jumped from the crowds and stood before them.

“You magei.” He spat at their feet. There was true hate in his dark eyes, and that alone pushed Jon Snow over the edge. In a heartbeat, Jon ripped his sword from its scabbard and pressed the steel to the boy’s throat. The apple of his neck bobbed as he swallowed. “Hold your tongue,” Jon spat in Dothraki, “or I’ll cut it out.”

With that, the boy disappeared amongst the crowds. “Come on,” Jon said as he hauled Dany back to her khas. Doreah took her from him, the three of the maids bundled together. “The child,” Irri said slowly. Jon did not have time to listen. He turned and spotted Ser Jorah rushing towards them, armored in his mail and leather and steel. “What has she done…”

He had not seen it before, but following Jorah’s eyes he looked back at the sandsilk walls of the tent. Inside, shadows danced within. _How?_ An uprising surged in the crowds as the Dothraki began to mutter and back away. Their cries turned from sorrow to anger, curses growing louder. _They won’t stand for some dark magic._

Jon lifted his sword to his side as the bloodriders returned. “This must not be,” Qotho, at the front, thundered loudly. Spit was flying from between his teeth. They had brought the hairless eunuchs - healing men - along with them. _It’s too late now._ Marys and Aerar were bellowing down at the crowds from their horses, keeping them back. The steel of their longswords glistened brightly, but were otherwise unbloodied. Ghost was bearing forward.

“This will be!” Dany shouted from behind him, her voice cracking in agony.

“Maegi!” Haggo came stepping forward, ripping his arakh free with a growl. Jon tensed and slipped into a stance. But then, as silent and as swift as a shadow, Duncan slowly came past him. Jon watched Qotho draw his arakh. “You will die, maegi,” he promised, “but the other must die first.”

Duncan’s voice pierced the air like an arrow through flesh. “Stop.” He said, with a subtle fury that made Jon tremble. Everyone fell to a standstill. Qotho’s dead eyes settled upon him, mouth seething, pupil’s shaking with mad rage. The others behind him just the same. Duncan’s tone was iron. “Jorah, take Daenerys and the others to safety. Protect her with your life.”

Jorah warily shook his head. “No, I will stay and fight,” the old knight began to reach for his sword.

 _“Now, ser.”_ Duncan insisted, his tone offering no argument.

With that, Duncan slowly reached a hand over his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his greatsword.

In that moment, the air smelt like blood.

Jon had never once seen the blade bare, never taken the time to really _look_ at it. If Duncan paid it no heed, why should he? Though looking now, from the hilt itself – a round pommel of pure white, engraved with a star, and a cross-guard made of languid metal the colour of milkglass – Jon could see it was a sword made for kings.

The blade slid from the scabbard with a metallic hiss that seared the air.

Jon’s breath fell away as even in shadow, the steel shone as white and pure as a star. The world grew brighter as flares of light danced along the fullers, moving here and there as Duncan swung it to his side. Its vicious edge shimmered for all of them to see, warning them. It was as if dawn had come all over again. White and sharp, white and deadly, white and dangerous.

This time, Jorah did not disobey him. “Yes.” he said. The knight quickly sheathed his sword, turned and began to the walk the others away.

“I will give you one last chance,” there was a sudden valor in Duncan’s voice that Jon had never heard before. The voice of a sure man. He had taken his sideward stance, back as straight as the sword in his hands. “Defend your khaleesi and live, or fight me and die.”

The six of them were bearing down on him, but Duncan was unchanged. Unmoving. Without fear. Qotho was enraged. “You are nothing, milk man. Once you are dead, I will kill the girl and leave you both for the dogs.”

“Nothing?” Duncan said slowly. The wind was brushing his sodden blue cloak, his head seemed to edge Jon’s way, only for a moment, before he said. “I… am the Sword of the Morning. You have made your choice.”

Jon nearly dropped his own sword as the realization dawned on him, but before the words could run through his head, before he could take their meaning, Qotho was already dashing forward. His arakh rose in a terrible swing, the air hissing, a roar coming from his mouth. Duncan stepped forward to meet him.

When the two blades met, light flared and a great steel shatter rattled the air around them. So loud it could’ve been the world breaking in two. But Jon soon saw it. Qotho’s arakh was split in half, part of his blade laid flat upon the dirt. _Brittle steel,_ Jon thought as the bloodrider stared down at his broken arakh, dazed. Duncan wasted no time. Swinging his sword in a rising arc, in one strike the blade took off Qotho’s head.

Screams rose all around them as blood leapt up into the air. Duncan danced forward to the others, Qotho’s lifeblood dripping from his sword’s edge. It was still five against one. It was no match… and yet, Jon did not fear. The others held their arakhs before them. They had grown far more hesitant, but their instincts were too strong to resist. They rushed towards him.

Duncan parried their first two strikes, and then a dozen others, trying his hardest to stop them from circling him. It was no good to be surrounded. Cohollo lunged too far, desperate to draw blood, and paid for it. Duncan knocked his blade away mid-strike, then gutted him in a single blow. The old bloodrider’s insides rolled forth like writhing red worms. He fell.

The others were more cautious now, but they had all gotten around him. Duncan made sure his back was never exposed, and Jon saw no fear in his eyes. _He’s no stranger to this_.

Haggo, the only bloodrider still breathing, spat at Duncan’s feet. The three others laughed aloud, then one of them sprang forward, his arakh cutting high. Duncan put his sword in the way, the clash of steel sent sparks flying. With their blades locked, another arakh came swinging for Duncan’s head. He ducked, pulling his sword down with him, and the steel cut nothing but air. _Now,_ Jon thought, as Duncan brought up his sword and sliced the man open from naval to breastbone. A slash of red mist followed the edge of his glowing blade, and a shallow scream left his opponent’s lips before he died.

Then there were only three. _Three dead men_ , Jon thought, but in a heartbeat another one of them was bearing down on Duncan, and everything moved too fast to think. The man hammered at Duncan’s head, swinging right then left and right again. The smash of steel on steel filled the air. When the arakh finally came low, sweeping for Duncan’s feet, he was ready for it. The blade brushed nothing but sand and dirt. In that instant, Duncan plunged his white sword down with all his might. The steel cut straight through the man’s collar bone, and his neck exploded with blood.

Haggo had decided he would put an end to it. Swinging his arakh, he hurled down on Duncan with an endless stream of strikes. Duncan parried and dodged each one after the other, biding his time, until a rock suddenly came flying from the crowd and smashed against the back of his head.

It was small, Jon saw, but enough to lower Duncan’s defence for even a moment. He fell to his knees, and Jon thought he was a dead man. The rock clattered at his feet, marred with blood. Haggo gave his arakh a deathly swing and buried the steel in Duncan’s side.

“Ghost!” Jon yelled. The wolf was bounding on his feet. He leapt over Duncan’s head and tried to wrap his jaws around Haggo’s arm, but the bloodrider lunged backwards, pulling his arakh free, and gave the wolf a swift smack on the snout. Ghost went clambering to the dirt.

Aerar’s axe suddenly flung through the air and took another rider in the back. Then Marys went bounding forward, his horse rearing, his sword cutting low at Haggo’s head. But the bloodrider had the better of it, he slid to his knees and swung his arakh. The blade cleaved through one of the horse’s legs. Screaming, the courser toppled to the dirt.

Marys’ body smacked and rolled against the ground, his longsword flailing well out of reach. _Haggo will kill him,_ Jon thought as the bloodrider’s shadow crept over Marys’ body. Duncan was coming back to his feet, but he was too slow. Someone took a knife to the fallen horse to end its screaming. _They need me._ Jon squeezed the hilt of his sword, felt his palm burn, and ran.

But it was not quick enough

Haggo’s arakh was a blur.

Jon’s heart beat so fast he thought it might burst through his chest. If you had blinked, you’d have missed it. But Jon had his eyes wide open.

 _Not him,_ Jon thought, as he stared at the crimson stain on Haggo’s blade. Marys gagged, reaching a hand up to his neck. The blood leaked through his fingers and pooled around his head. He coughed again, and it burst out through his mouth. Jon felt a black rage take over him.

Haggo was ready and waiting when their blades clashed, his arakh getting in the way of his sword. Jon stared into his eyes, saw the madness in them, and wrenched free. He felt the warm sweat dripping down his face, the smell of death that burned his nostrils, and through it all his blood boiling. _I must finish it,_ Jon thought _._ He wanted to charge him, but Haggo’s defence was too strong for that. _I watched him fight... he’ll let me grind myself to dust, then end me._

With that thought in his head, Jon placed a foot behind him and waited for his opponent. He saw the hesitation pass through Haggo’s eyes, for a single instant, before he came swinging at him. No Dothraki would ever dare show fear. When the rider struck at him this time, Jon was waiting. Steel smashed in the air, spitting sparks. His sword would be a ruin by the end of it, Jon knew. _So long as I live._

They staggered away from one another, but Jon had reach on his side. He thrust his blade forward with both hands. _He’ll deflect it,_ Jon thought, _he’ll leap out of the way._

Blood shot up the fullers of his sword as a red eye split open on Haggo’s leg. Jon pounced backwards on his heel, and Haggo’s arakh whistled an inch past his face. The man looked down at the wound on his leg, spewing Dothraki so fast that could Jon not understand a single word of it. But any man could’ve seen his anger growing.

Jon waited. _Let him take his time, let his leg collapse under him._ His right eye suddenly throbbed, and his left leg burned in pain, but Jon did not dare show it. Blood started to clog his vision, or was it sweat? There was no time to think. Haggo was coming at him again, and deflecting his blow sent a sharp ache rattling up to Jon’s shoulder.

The bloodrider grew restless. With every charge, his right leg wept red tears. Blood was sputtering from his flesh and spraying across the dirt. He grew slower, and Jon quicker. When the arakh came swinging for his head, Jon ducked low and sliced Haggo’s calf. Then the man was limping. As good as dead. Yet Haggo pressed on, and blood begot blood.

Jon had opened a dozen wounds before Ghost leapt before him. Stumbling, Haggo didn’t lift his arakh in time. Ghost’s jaws sunk in into the bloodrider’s stomach. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

The last man, Mago, was dead as well. Aerar’s axe hung from his shoulder, and Duncan’s shining sword poked clear through his chest, dripping blood. Jon ignored the wetness streaming down his face and ran to Marys.

The blood had come forth in a rush, covering his neck and the ground below his head. Jon fell to his knees beside him. He remembered saving Marys’ life at the battle of the Lhazareen town… it had not been so long ago.

His face had been bloodied and was dirty from the fall, but now it was only blue and cold as snow. His big black eyes darted around endlessly, searching.

They settled on Jon’s face.

As carefully as he could manage, Jon lifted his head and held it above the ground. He felt warm blood slipping through his fingers. The crowds around them roared and writhed, but Jon paid them no mind; he didn’t care for them. A hand touched his shoulder, it looked like Dany’s, but it was gone before he spared a look.

A choking sound erupted from Marys’ throat. _You’re going to live,_ Jon wanted to tell him, but the words would not come. Marys had known many battles, seen many men die. He was no green boy. Jon’s lies would’ve done more harm than good, he had no doubt.

And so Jon knelt there in silence. He felt as if a knife had punctured his stomach. Marys was not of his family, but Jon had thought him a friend. _The gods are selfish cunts_ , he remembered the man saying once. Jon had laughed it off with the rest of them, but now he was not so naïve as he had been.

Marys reached a weak hand up and touched Jon’s face. The way his brow creased and his skin wrinkled, it seemed to take all the strength he had left in him. His fingers brushed against Jon’s chin, weak and wet with blood, and fell.

His eyes grew still.

Jon did not move. He stared back into the empty black eyes, knowing they would never move again. He did not let it go into his heart. _This is the way of the world_ , he was learning, _an hour ago I was talking to him…_ an hour ago, Daenerys was a khaleesi, and Duncan was a sellsword, nothing more. _An hour ago, she was happy…_

Now, that was all gone as well.

You could cry, or you could fight on. Jon did not know how much time had passed before Duncan joined him on his knees, but he noticed the crowds had receded, back to their tents and mats and hovels. _Good,_ Jon thought, he did not want to listen to their bickering no longer.

“Here,” Duncan said as he took Marys’ body from Jon’s arms. He laid him back on the dirt, though softly as if he was asleep and Duncan was afraid to wake him. The man’s eyes were still open, so Jon closed them with a hand.

“You have blood on your face.” Duncan said. 

Jon ignored his words. “Your name was never Duncan,” he lifted his gaze to look on at the stranger. Spots of blood were scattered about the man’s face, his brow and nose and stubbled cheeks stained red. But staring even now, he did not seem at all the same person. “Sword of the Morning, you said. How… how… you’re dead.”

The last Sword of the Morning had been Ser Arthur Dayne, every boy in the Seven Kingdoms knew his name as well as they knew their own father’s. And every boy wanted to grow up to be him. He was the greatest fighter the realm had seen in years, and long dead.

“I am not dead.” the stranger said, hauling Jon to his feet. “And Aerar needs to tend to that eye.” The flies had already found the bodies, nestling amongst the blood and gore, small and black. Ghost came to Jon’s side and nipped lightly at his fingers. It was something he often did. Duncan, or so Jon had known him, looked at Aerar and the others. “Where’s Daenerys?” he said.

Aerar’s voice was brittle as parchment. “With the bear knight and the others, behind the tent.”

“Tell them to gather their horses. We ride now.”

Jon looked down at his sword. It felt so heavy. The steel was notched in a dozen places, and he thought of throwing it. But even a broken sword was better than none. He sheathed it at his belt.

“Jon. Now.” Aerar was mounted, Duncan already climbing into the saddle. _We’re running._ Jon prodded the sting burning along his face, his right eye most of all. When he brought down his hand, blood stained the end of his fingertips. He did not remember ever taking such a wound.

Then he felt it streaming down his cheek. Jon shook his head, his hand falling back to his side. “Daenerys, she won’t go.” His words came out as a slur, and his head swam. He nearly fell, but his legs managed to carry him as far as the tent.

“I won’t leave him.” Jon heard her desperate voice. _You must… he’s dead. You can’t die for him as well. You’re too important._

“Take my hand.” Duncan said from afar, to him or someone else? Jon nearly staggered to his knees, but then a hand grabbed the back of his tunic. Jon gasped as he was hoisted onto a saddle. All the while, the blood streamed down his face.

Groaning, Jon prodded for the reins, and found them.

“No, I won’t… I won’t…” Through eyes blurred with blood, he saw Dany’s silver. Then she was upon it. _Run,_ he thought, _ride._ His horse started to move below him. “Ghost.” He whispered.

“I’ll hold them,” a man’s voice said.

The last thing Jon Snow glimpsed before his eyes closed, was Khal Drogo’s tent bursting aflame. 

 

## SWORD OF THE MORNING

Over the shrill shivering of leaves, Rhaego let out a cry.

They had ridden hard from the khalasar for three days and three nights, only ever stopping to water their horses. No camps, no fires, and no rest. Not if they wanted their lives. Whenever Arthur would look to the horizon, he half-expected to see a thousand mounted savages chasing them down. But instead, he saw nothing but empty hills and distant green plains.

If any of the Dothraki were indeed on their tail, then they did a good job of hiding it. A horde of ten thousand travelled slower than ten. Even so, he gave the others no time to stop. They barked and moaned and hated him for it, and even Ser Jorah Mormont had insisted no one had followed them from the camp. _They can sleep soundly once we reach Pentos_ , Arthur told himself, _when we are safe._

It would take them moons, no doubt, yet day by day they travelled farther… until on the pale dawn of the fourth day, Daenerys could not mount her horse.

Nor could she stand. When she had fallen to her knees in the stream, crying out, Jon had been the first by her side. Then came the maids. Together, they lifted her from the water and carried her into the trees at their back. “The child is coming,” Irri had been quick to announce. 

Daenerys had laboured for a full day and night. Each scream that came echoing from her throat spread out across the plains, until Arthur grew so wary he forced them all to retreat inside the small patch of wood they had stopped beside. It was too small to be called a forest, but large enough to hide them. 

When the babe was born, Daenerys could not move or speak, and she slipped in and out of her fever dreams as changeable as flame. The mats they had set her down on were soaked red with blood, but Irri had assured him that she would recover. They had wrapped her in furs to keep her warm, swaddled and fed her newborn babe with mare’s milk, and could do nothing more but wait.

Arthur listened to the wind sigh through the trees. _Another day gone_ , he thought, _and more time lost._ He could only be glad for the trees and bramble that shrouded them, for it may have saved their lives. A whole khalasar might’ve passed them without going through the trees, where the ground was littered with roots too unsteady for their horses and wagons.

The three warriors of her khas were his sentries and scouts, sworn to her by Khal Drogo. They had prattled on about how they meant to take Daenerys to Vaes Dothrak, and Arthur had half-thought he would need to kill them… but eventually they had given in. “You cannot take a khaleesi back to Vaes Dothrak if we’re all killed,” Jon had told them. The thought of breaking their oath kept them in line, for now.

Arthur had each one of them riding the borders of the wood, with orders to double back should so they see any sort of danger. “You will be well-rewarded when we reach Pentos,” he’d told them. He thought that might help keep their loyalty, but rewards didn’t seem to be much in their interests. _They’ll defect the moment they lay eyes on another khalasar,_ some part of him worried, _yet they could have stayed with the khalasar and never have come at all._

And they were all he had.

But even with men on watch and Dawn beside him, Arthur wrestled sleep. He would sometimes let his eyes close in the saddle, but only for a moment. It was too much of a risk. He had fallen asleep the night Rhaego was born, up against the bark of an elm, and it had been a ghastly dream that shook him awake.

A haunting dream. Not of fire or war or clashing swords, war held no more nightmares for him. In his dream, he woke flat against grey stone. Waves crashed in the distance, and through the cry of seagulls he could hear a girl’s sobs wracking the air. When he opened his eyes, Arthur saw all around him pillars in the shape of swords. _Home,_ he recognised. He had not seen Starfall in years, but he would never forget the Palestone Sword.

Sodden wind brushed against his brow, and on his tongue it tasted like salt. Arthur tried to move his arms but he could hardly feel them. He remembered standing on the stone beneath him many years past, spending a night watching the waves crash below. The Palestone Sword was topped by a balcony that spread out on all sides, with no walls or bannister, only a roof and four pillars. _It was here that she…_

Spit bursting from his lips, Arthur forced himself to his feet. His scream echoed out from the tower and spread across the night, the sound of a man half-dead. He wore nothing but old rags and a blue cloak. His arms were bleeding and marred with dirt, his hair coming in knots over his eyes. He looked around him.

And saw her.

Long robes of purple silk twisted from her dress, flapping in the air like a hundred unfurling banners. Arthur tried to take a step towards her, but was gagged when something pulled at his throat. A collar, bound by rope to the pillar at his back. “Ashara…” his voice was half a cry, half a whisper. Her pale arm clung to the stone at her side, as she looked over the storm raging below.

When he blinked, her saw another beside her. The man’s hair flowed down to his shoulders, silvery-grey _._ Enamelled steel the colour of snow hugged his frame, gorget, greaves, gauntlet and breastplate. From his shoulders fell the white cloak of the Kingsguard. The man joined his sister on the edge of the stone, and with a gentle hand he pushed her.

As she fell, lightning cracked across the sky. “No!” Arthur leapt forward, straining, but the device around his neck let him go no further. Tears fell from his eyes, and his feet bled as they burned against the stone. He would have choked himself to death had his body not broken beneath him. His knees buckled and he fell. 

It was only when the man before him turned, did Arthur see who it was. _Me._ “Look at you,” his own reflection told him. When Arthur opened his lips, the wind ran down his throat. This was not Duncan, this was Ser Arthur Dayne. A Sworn Brother, the Sword of the Morning in all earnest… a true knight. “You are not worthy of me. You threw away your honour when you threw away your cloak.”

“You killed her.” Arthur gasped. Rain started to lash against his skin like a whip, bouncing off stone.

“Yes, you killed her.” The knight replied, approaching him. Dawn whistled as it was pulled from the scabbard, and his white plate rattled with each smack of the rain. “You ran and left her.”

The knight lifted Dawn high in the air, and through eyes wet with tears and rain Arthur gazed at the sword’s edge. He wished for a sword for himself, for a chance.

Then it appeared in his hand. Jon’s sword, with the red hilt fashioned into a dragon’s head. The steel of the blade burned red with light. Before the knight could cut him down, Arthur was on his feet plunging steel through plate and leather and wool. The knight’s eyes grew faint and Dawn fell from his hand. It vanished in an instant, nothing more than mist.

The knight stumbled back and fell. Arthur turned to cut the rope binding him to the pillar, but found it was gone. Standing on his own two feet again, he nearly toppled over. Lighting cut through the sky, thunder shook the foundations of the Palestone Sword, and under it all he heard a man’s voice murmur. “Arthur.”

His Sworn Brothers were stood all around him, all six of them. One man for every pillar, and another two where his sister had fallen. Even in the storm, their white cloaks hung heavily from their shoulders, unmoving. Somehow that made it worse. Their armour was white and their skin too, pale and dead.

But not the Kingslayer. The boy who he had knighted was still a boy, wearing plate that didn’t fit him. “Brother,” he said. The word echoed across the ocean. _Brother, brother, brother._

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.” It was his own voice, Arthur knew, ringing from somewhere distant. His brothers took a step towards him. Their long white shields clanked, their swords rattled in their scabbards. Rain battered against the back of their helms.

“Stay back.” Arthur warned them, holding Jon’s sword out before him. He felt so weak that any one of them could’ve took him. “I… I will kill you.”

“You won’t kill me.”

Rhaegar was a pale vision. On his head was a crown made of rubies, and his hair flowed long and languid over his shoulders. He was half a man, half a ghost.

“Rhaegar.” Arthur looked into the Prince’s violet eyes. “Tell them...”

“Tell them what?” The prince beckoned, smiling. “How you broke your oath and let Stark take my son?”

“Let a boy of King’s blood be raised a Snow,” said the White Bull.

“Dragon’s blood,” said the Bold.

“It was safer,” Arthur said slowly. The Kingsguard took another step closer to him, but none were so close as Rhaegar Targaryen. “I found him, didn’t I? I’m trying…”

“You let my sister be abused and sold,” Rhaegar took a step closer. Arthur pressed the point of his sword into the Prince’s chest. The wool began to sizzle and burn, but found he did not have the will in him to press it any further. “You let Viserys beat her, and then you let him die.”

“The Beggar King they called him,” said Darry.

“And her his Beggar Bitch,” voiced Oswell.

“I trusted you with their lives,” Rhaegar’s eyes wept molten gold. “With my House.”

Arthur dropped Jon’s sword. He never heard it clatter against the stone. “I’m just one man…” He said, “I tried, I… I failed.”

“Failed.” They all uttered together. The world filled with the stomp of their steel boots, the hiss of their swords as they unsheathed them.

Then they would come at him

And he woke.

Sighing, Arthur gave Dawn another run of the cloth. He had not slept since then. The shadows of the trees ran down the fullers as the moon rose above them, and the steel shone grey as granite. A fire would’ve lit the sword like starlight, Arthur knew, but it could have also meant their death.

In the privacy of his chambers or a tent, he had dared clean it every night. Even torchlight had not held a candle to when the blade glittered in the sun. Never glowing as he knew it could. Over the first few years, when he had been younger and more rash, it had took all his will to hide it away.

But there was no other choice.

Dawn was the most renowned sword of the Seven Kingdoms, crafted from the heart of a falling star, as strong and sure as Valyrian steel. Even in Essos, any man worth his mettle would have recognized it, and word would have spread quickly. It was not a chance he was ever willing to take. Nobody across the Narrow Sea could learn he still lived. There were times when he had stood before a river, holding the sword in his palms, and thought of letting it fall. But he never could.

He had known the consequences, what taking out the sword again would mean. Yet all the same, he had done it. _Duncan died in that camp_ , he thought, _but who am I now?_

There was no choice, he had reasoned with himself afterwards, and no chance if I had not done it. With a longsword he might have fared, but with Dawn he felt unstoppable. The Dothraki would never know the sword for what it was. Some conjuror’s trick, they would say. He could be sure the forty thousand riders they had fled from would not carry tales of Arthur Dayne on their lips.

But even with Dawn in hand, he could not stop Marys from dying. His friend. They had not had the time to mourn him, nor Aerar. _He’s dead too,_ Arthur thought. The man had stayed behind to fend off any who would give them chase. Arthur had only ever met a scarce amount of men of such valour, and he would greatly miss them both.

Twigs cracked at his left. Arthur’s hand grew still, ready to go for the hill. It was dark as pitch at night, but after a moment Arthur saw the slender shape lumbering towards him. Wind blew open the leaves and moonlight shot against Jon’s face. He looked so much older than his years. A fine red line ran from his brow and over his right eye, stopping at his cheek. Arthur had tended to the wound himself, as hastily as he could. _It will not scar well,_ he thought. 

They had not spoken properly since that day, only in passing. When Arthur would bark an order, Jon seemed too tired to do anything but obey. The boy sighed and sat across from him, his back against a tree. _He’s not gone to sleep with the others,_ Arthur realised. That could only mean one thing.

After a moment of silence, Jon’s voice broke the air. “It’s about time you told me,” he croaked, “about what happened at the tower. With my fa-uncle, and my mother.”

Silent, Arthur slid Dawn back into its scabbard. The night seemed to grow a little darker. He had been waiting for this ever since the day they had left the khalasar, in truth, but did not think Jon would ask before they were inside the walls of Pentos.

 _I had not planned on stopping for so long._ Jon was not finished. “You are Ser Arthur? This is not another lie, is it?”

Anger. It was to be expected. _I lied to him for so long._ “I was born Arthur Dayne, yes, at Starfall. Sworn vassals to House Martell… my mother’s name was Casella and my lord father was Bedric Dayne.” The wind around them seemed to calm. “They had four children. My brother before me was named Ulrick, for the Sword of the Morning of old, yet I was the one who was granted the title and the sword. My sisters were Ashara, and young Allyria.” Arthur still remembered their faces. “I have not seen either of them in years… Allyria was no more than a child, and I am told Ashara threw herself from the Palestone Sword. I will never truly know why.”

He had not said their names aloud in years. Only in dreams. “Does my brother still live, and Allyria? Do they know I’m alive? I ask myself these questions. What if Ashara told them before she died? There’s a mantle on the wall in Starfall, where Dawn sits when there is no one worthy to wield her… I dream that each day they look and know that, whilst it’s still empty, I draw breath.”

It was a hopeless dream, Arthur had always known, but he said it anyway. 

Through the blackness, he could sense Jon gaping. “Ashara, she knew you were alive?”

It had been a pale day when he had spotted her above the ramparts of Starfall, watching him return. “She did. Before I boarded a ship to Essos, I went home. But Allyria and my brother were not there, only her. Lord Stark came too, and his friend… I forget his name.”

“Howland Reed, you mean?” Jon said quickly. He heard the boy shift closer. “But the realm believes that Ned killed you? It’s the answer he has given everyone.”

“I know,” Arthur said, “I thought of the story myself. You must see, before Lord Stark arrived, your mother begged me for her brother’s life. When Rhaegar left the tower, he promised to put down the rebellion by whatever means, and to return. He said he would overthrow his father and sit the Iron Throne himself. Not a rebellion, but what the realm needed. He would have a made a better ruler than Aerys or Robert, no doubt… but we all feared that would never come to pass, not with so many joining the rebellion.”

Ghost slipped between two trees and sat beside Jon, pure white against the dark. His eyes shone like red as rubies. Arthur went on. “But we remained, me and my sworn brothers. Dutiful. Sworn to an oath to guard your mother and the child she carried, from whatever harm. By then, after months of nothing, though she missed Rhaegar, she missed her home and her brothers more. Blood is blood, after all, and the Stark’s roots run deep.” He paused. “I would walk in to find her weeping. More than once. She made no effort to hide it.”

He could remember the first time, even now. Opening the door, clad in white plate, to find her sat upon her bed cradling her swollen belly, tears running in streams down her cheeks. In those days, Arthur had wrestled with his oath to keep her confided.

“But still you kept her locked away?” Jon said.

“We were Kingsguard sworn to protect her, to keep her safe from harm and if she ran…” _She wouldn’t have made it a day on her own._ “Rhaegar had not told us to comfort her… and she didn’t like me, nor Gerold or Oswell, not even the maids Rhaegar had summoned to suit her every need. I think… you were her only comfort. The only thing she could call her own.”

Silence was his own reply. A stillness heavy with the weight of his words. _He must know the truth_. “I was often the one to check on her, morning, noon, night. Sometimes she would corner me, refuse to let me leave until I told her what was happening. Would that I could have, if I only knew what to tell her… we got no ravens, no word. Once, she even pulled a sword on me. I don’t how or where she had found it, but she had grown so desperate with grief that she would fight me for… for what?”

 _For anything._ Her body had been wracking with sobs, but the blade was steady in her hands, scraping his breastplate. “If my brother comes for me, she had said, do not kill him. Let him live, you owe me that… I had sworn to do as my prince commanded. When Stark came riding over the hill to us, with another six men at his heel, I stood and fought with the others. Seven men fell.”

Arthur took a moment to swallow deeply, memories flooding him. He squeezed Dawn’s hilt between his hands so hard his knuckles turned white. “When they killed two of my brothers… I wanted nothing more than to end Stark’s life.” Above, a bird took flight. Arthur felt some old unfamiliar anger returning to him. “But Rhaegar, my true friend, was dead, and the king too. From the tower, I could hear Lya screaming. Her promise, her wishes… so I broke my oath. I took Stark and his bannerman to your mother’s bedside. You had just been born, squealing and crying. Ned vowed to protect you, claim you as his own son. I insisted I would take you to Starfall, to Essos to find your aunt and uncle… but it was too dangerous.”

Jon hunched forward. “And… what then?”

“We rode for Starfall. Where I stayed, and Ned and you and Lord Reed went north again. Stark thought to tell people I was not there when he reached the tower, but valiant Arthur would have never abandoned his oath. I knew it was better to be dead. No one would look for me.”

He had crossed the Narrow Sea not long after. Knowing he could not call himself Arthur Dayne no longer, he knew he would have to think of another. Where Duncan came from, he could only think of the old Lord Commander, Duncan the Tall.

It was moments afterward that Ser Jorah Mormont approached. His mail and plate shook with each step. Jon fell silent. “Rakharo says he’s seen no one since dawn,” the old knight announced, “Aggo speaks of a few dozen riders, though they came nowhere near him. And Jhogo slept most of the day…”

Arthur sighed. “Let him take first watch, then. Bring Rakharo and Aggo back, but inform they are to circle the camp until first light. They can sleep in the saddle when we move on the morrow.”

Nodding his head, Jorah disappeared into the darkness. Arthur’s words had only been half a lie. If Daenerys could sit a saddle, they would ride, but he doubted she could. It was a long while after that the clink of armour was lost to the sound of gasping wind and wood. By then, Arthur guessed Jon was asleep.

There was little else to do then. Arthur laid down across his cloak, willing that he would stare at the stars until morning came. It was only when he let out a breath that Jon Snow spoke, “You did not break your oath, Arthur.” His voice was calm. “You kept it.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Though he welcomed the words and what they meant, they made no difference to him. He had spent far too much time with the memories of his past to go back on them now. _It was one oath for another_. Ser Barristan Selmy still lived, he had heard, serving Robert as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. _Does he feel the same?_ Arthur wished he could have known.

With the wind in his ears and dead leaves brushing against his face, Arthur slept. Wrapped in in his cloak, his head upon a saddle, it was almost comfortable, almost warm, and he found his dreams wandering onto days long past, and people long dead.

Harrenhal rose around him, not Starfall. Rhaegar’s chambers within the Kingspyre Tower had been dreary with light. _The tourney…_ he could remember more of that day than he expected. The ugly walls of blackened steel, melted like candle wax where Balerion had bathed them in dragonflame. He saw the carpets littered over stone, the dragon banners, the red drapes that adorned Rhaegar’s bed - Lord Whent had placed them there to please him – and the resolute look about the prince’s face.

“And you are so sure it was her?” The words came from Arthur’s mouth unbidden. _I’m only watching,_ he noticed. He was sat upon the windowsill and looking out over the tourney grounds. A dozen banners were flapping in the wind. The three-headed dragon, the direwolf of Stark and stag of House Baratheon.

“I found her myself, stripping off the armour, the shield at her feet, how surer can I be than that?” Rhaegar was sat behind his chamber’s table, writing a letter. To who, Arthur could not remember.

But he not forgotten the day the Knight of the Laughing Tree had entered the lists. “And will you tell your father?”

Rhaegar lowered his quill then. “I will not. I asked her if she posed any threat to the crown, and she gave me a smack of her shield in return.” The prince laughed. “I like her, I do, she is _strong…_ and beautiful.”

 _If only I’d have known what those words meant then._ It seemed a thousand years ago. _They’re all dead now. Rhaegar, Lyanna, Gerold and Oswell and Lewyn, Jonothor Darry and Brandon Stark, my own sister… Rhaella and Elia, little Rhaenys and Aegon._ The names of his time were gone, and he still lived.

An arm shook Arthur from sleep. Through the gaps in the leaves, the moon shone high and bright. Hours had passed. Under the thick canopy, the air was black as soot. “What?” Arthur asked of the darkness, his eyes cracking open.

Jorah Mormont’s voice replied. “Hush.” The knight knelt so close Arthur could see the white of his eyes. “A khalasar camps beside the wood. Khal Jhaqo. Jhogo says he saw him with his own eyes. Thousands of riders and slaves.”

Arthur heard it then, and his heart quickened in his chest. The distant whistle of voices that carried through the wind, the crack of fires and whiny of horses. He knew what it meant. _We have to go._ Jhaqo had been one of Drogo’s riders, and a khal now, it seemed. “Are the others awake?”

“No. I came to you at once.”

 _Good,_ Arthur thought. But he would need to wake them. “Ready the horses.”

“Aye.” Jorah said. He turned, but Arthur caught his arm.

“Tell the khas to get back. Now.”

The knight disappeared behind the trees. Arthur threw back the cover of his cloak and leapt to his feet. The voices seemed louder now, or perhaps he was more alert. It did not matter. _What if they ride through here…_ Moonlight glittered against Dawn’s hilt. Arthur grabbed the sword and slung it across his back. He prayed he would not have to use it.

They were only ten of them, in truth, and they had travelled light. “Jon.” Arthur whispered to the tree where Jon had been sat, a great black bark. No one answered but the wind. _Damn him._ Arthur began to duck through the trees, stepping over roots and leaves and fallen logs. _Where is he?_

The others were laid beneath a small outcrop, the moon shining down on them brightly. With no leaves blocking its light, grey misty fingers danced over Dany’s hair as she laid sleeping on her side, each strand glowing silver. Arthur stepped towards her, guiding his feet over arms and legs. It was only when he was close that he saw Jon Snow.

Instinctively, he leant down to wake them… but stopped; his hand an inch from Jon’s shoulder, and stared for a moment to take it in.

They were the last. The last of the dragon’s blood. _And the babe too, I mustn’t forget._ Tired and weak and lost, but they had been brought together for a reason. It was no mere chance; how could it have been? Arthur brought his hand back to his side. The three dragon’s eggs were nestled between their bodies, black and green and gold. Dany had her hand resting against one of them, and in Jon’s grasp was a bundle of furs that could’ve only been Rhaego. _A Baratheon sits the Iron Throne,_ Arthur thought with a grimace, _but that seat was built by dragon blood. It belongs to them._

In that moment, no matter what was to come, Arthur Dayne vowed he would see them to their rightful place.

Then, remembering himself, he shook them awake. Jon’s eyes were open in an instant. He seemed to sense Arthur’s worry, as he leant forward and said. “What’s wrong?”

“Jhaqo.” Dany spoke before he could. Arthur stared at her, speechless. _How could she know? Had Jorah gone to her?_ “I dreamt about him…” she said, clutching the black-and-crimson dragon’s egg close to her breast.

Daenerys had spoken little to him since they had fled. As they rode, her thoughts lingered only on Drogo and the fire that consumed his tent the moment they were gone. They had all seen it, and Arthur had watched her staring the flames from afar. Then when the labour took her, nothing came from her mouth but cries of pain.

Since then, she had not spoken.

A shift went over Jon’s eyes, his breathing picking up. “How close?”

“On the edge of the trees. We’ll ride west until nightfall. With the wood between us and a good few leagues, by the time they break camp we’ll be long gone.” Arthur hoped.

Jon got to his feet, carrying a mewling Rhaego with him. Arthur heard him rousing the handmaidens from sleep, telling them to stay quiet. Arthur turned to Daenerys. “Can you ride?”

A pained look washed over her face. “I’ll… I’ll have to.”

Arthur wished he could’ve offered a wagon for her to lay in, but they had never brought one. He would’ve forgotten even the dragon eggs had one of the handmaids not thrown them together in a sack. He stood as the others began to roll up their sleeping skins, hushed words going between them.

Jorah returned with the khas, and all their readied horses. Arthur found Dany’s silver and lead it to her. “Grab me,” he said as he leant down towards her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held with all her strength. Her lifted her onto the saddle with ease.

Then every trace of them was packed and gone, and they were ready. Arthur found his horse, mounted and cantered to the head of them. “No talking.” He said in a quiet voice, “not until we’re out of the trees.”

Though the wood was small, it seemed an eternity before they finally came past the last sentinel. A bird had circled above them most of the way, black against the stars. It had cawed and cawed, following them in wide circles, until Arthur had ordered Aggo to bring it down. He heard the shrill cries of distant elk, and some others he could not put a name to. Every little sound seemed to spread around them, darting past the trees. First left, then right. He felt as if they were surrounded.

But they emerged unscathed, and all the more importantly, unseen.

“They never saw us.” Doreah was shaking atop her palfrey. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. Before them, a vast plain of grass stretched out to the far distance. All steady hills and banks. Arthur spotted a stream running over a pass, the moon lighting up the ripples. They did not have time to stop.

Rhaego was wrapped in a sling that hung from Irri’s chest. _If he wakes…_ Arthur dug his heels and steered down the hill. The others followed.

They had ridden slow through the forest, where the ground was uneven and dangerous. But over windswept hills and grass, there was little risk of their mounts breaking a foot. So Arthur Dayne dug his heels and set the pace. Now was the time to make haste.

His teeth and arse was numb by the time the sun rose, but he did not stop. If Daenerys was in pain, she did not show it. He thanked her for that. The land around them was unchanging, an endless stream of lush green. Mountains loomed to the north, growing as they rode, then shrinking and falling behind the grass. Arthur pressed on.

The only time they stopped was to feed Rhaego his mother’s milk. Even then, they stayed at a trot. Arthur endlessly looked over his shoulder. He ordered Jhogo to ride at their rear, and Rakharo and Aggo were the outriders. He had to keep his wits about him. Avoiding Khal Jhaqo was good enough, but Arthur did not want to run from the jaws of one khalasar only to fall into another.

 _We need only get behind some city walls,_ he thought. Pentos never strayed far from his mind, but any port city that would not enslave them at first sight would’ve have been enough to get them there. _Selhorys or Volantis are the closest… and I still have some coin left to me._ As nightfall came, their horses started to moan and trot to a slow. They needed rest.

Under a rock and surrounded by reeds six feet high, they begrudgingly made camp. Dany, Jon and the others laid atop the grass and slept. Arthur did not. He decided to give Dawn a clean, steadying his mind to the slow slither of steel on leather. By the end, Jorah Mormont joined him.

“We fought on separate sides of the rebellion.” The old knight thought it fit to mention, eating a hardened piece of bread.

Arthur bristled at his words and sheathed Dawn. “I never stepped foot on a battlefield during the war. My duties were elsewhere.” The blade slid into the scabbard with ease.

Jorah looked up at the moon. “It was a long time ago. And here we both are, serving another. The gods have their jests, don’t they? I fought for Robert and the Stark’s, and it was Ned Stark who drove me out of my home.”

“After you broke his laws,” Arthur said, watching the knight’s face.

“Aye,” the man returned, and that was the last they spoke to each other. Arthur crossed through the brush and found a small puddle of water flowing between some rocks. He took each horse for a drink. _He is a good follower_ , Arthur thought, _Mormont. But not a man I would ever choose to lead._ He had seen the way the man looked at Daenerys, how he hung by her side and was first to offer his counsel.

 _Once we get to Pentos, I’ll demand the truth from him._ Until then, Arthur knew he best keep the man close.

When sun rose, he did not have to tell the others what to do. One by one they gathered their rushes, mounted their horses and started through the bramble of tall stalks.

Arthur had heard of devilgrass before, but he was not sure if this was it. Either way, he cursed it to seven hells. It slowed them down greatly, only ever clearing for a several yards. They rode in silence, slept only in the saddle, and suddenly three days had passed before the grass finally faded. By then, they were all exhausted.

“We need to stop.” Daenerys said as they came at the top of a ridge. The sun was hiding beneath distant hills, and the sky an all too familiar red. Arthur rode up beside her.

“Stop? We can’t stop.” He looked around at the others, who all seemed to be agreeing with her. He saw eyes that were half-shut, shoulders slumped. _They’re giving up._ He ran a hand through his hair. “Listen. I know you’re tired, but-”

Daenerys shook her heard. “No. Listen to _me._ ” Her eyes were wide and full. There was no doubt in her words. “We ran from Jhaqo’s khalasar, but another one follows. They’ll be upon us by nightfall, no matter what we do.” 

 _Had she lost her mind?_ “How can you know that?” The wind had grown as a faint as a kiss.  

Dany lifted her chin, glanced at Jon Snow, then looked back at Arthur with eyes full of pity. “I have seen it. I know it will happen. We can’t stop it… and Jon has seen it too.”

Arthur was stunned into silence. He almost laughed, but his throat was too dry for that. He looked at Jon for answers. The boy only nodded his head, but did not meet his eyes.

“You saw- what did you see?” Arthur scoffed, looking around at the others. The maids seemed half asleep, Rakharo and Aggo were pretending to understand, and Ser Jorah watched silently from his horse.

“Riders,” Jon said, his voice was hesitant. _He doesn’t believe himself, either_. “Another khalasar on our heels.”

Arthur shook his head. “You’ve never left my side, how could you have-”

“I didn’t see it, Ghost did… and I saw it through his eyes. Like a dream. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Jon inched forward. Arthur could feel the boy’s grey eyes searching his own, looking for some recognition.

“Like a dream,” Arthur sighed. “A dream. That is all it is.”

“He thought the same.” Dany’s words rang with truth. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But last night… he saw Jhogo die. And tell me, where is he now? The others returned to get their orders, but Jhogo has not. He saw them kill him.”

It was true. Arthur searched for the words, to tell them they were wrong, but could not find them. He had sent Rakharo and Aggo to look for their lost rider, and they had come back with nothing. A croak was all that came through Arthur’s lips. _What if they’re right?_ “If this is the truth, why should we stop? If we carry on, we give ourselves a chance to escape them.”

“He’s right, Khaleesi.” Jorah Mormont leant forward, finally deciding to make himself useful. “We must keep going.”

Dany shook her head. “We could keep running, but it would not be long before they catch us. They’d kill you all, but it’s me they want the most. And Rhaego… you all need to hide.”

Arthur shook his head and leant over to put his hand on her shoulder. “No.” he said. _How could she ever think I would leave her?_ “You think any one of us would leave you to die? It will not happen.”

And she smiled. A terrible smile. “Die? I would not die. Not if we do as I say. If not, then the khalasar will kill us or enslave us all, it makes no matter which. This is how it must be. I command it.” 

“You speak as if you have seen it,” Arthur felt as if a dagger was turning in his heart. “If you mean to follow your husband to the grave, then think of your son.”

“I am.” Dany said. “I’m saving him.”

It was an hour later that they came upon the hill. A great piece of rock and grass that jutted out from the mud. Dany rode at the head of them, and stopped to look at it. “There.” She said, riding forward. It was hard to remember that only days ago she had laid still in a fever, unable to speak or move.

The climb was too unsteady, so they dismounted and led their horses up the path by foot. _I’m saving him._ Arthur went over the words in his head. _How could she save her child by falling into the hands of butchers? Save all of us?_ Aerar had died as a distraction to give them time to get away, did Dany mean to do the same? Aerar had been no more than a sellsword, but she was the blood of the dragon. _Die. I wouldn’t die._ It all made no sense to him. He found Jon at the front of their trail, and grabbed the boy hard by the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Arthur spat. The scar over Jon’s right eye was red and scabbed. “You’d let her die?”

Jon shoved his arm away. “I wouldn’t!” He gasped, looking over his shoulder. “I trust her. And I know what I saw… she isn’t wrong.”

It was hopeless, but Arthur went on. _I can’t fail both of you again._ “Your wolf dreams? She’s mad with grief,” Arthur said. _And are you?_ Jon had been fond of Marys, as the man had been of him. “Her words… she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Jon took him by the shoulder. “It sounds that way, I know. But why would she ever try to lead us astray? You know she wouldn’t, not her. Trust her, Arthur. I said I would, and between us here, who is the Kingsguard?”

The mount of the hill was even smaller than he anticipated. _You couldn’t have fit no more than a single tent upon the grass_ , he realised, but it was enough for their ragged bunch. Arthur led his horse to a fallen log. The bark was bare and splintered, but as good as any to keep wrap his reins around. _What is she planning?_ He sighed and looked at the sun falling to the west. _That’s where we should be going,_ he thought, _to the safety of stone walls. Not some dream._

Half the sky had turned black by the time Daenerys ordered them to gather wood. “Wood, and grass, anything you can find that will burn.” She said. Arthur had gone to her once the others descended the hill. _She means to make a fire._ “Please,” Arthur pleaded, “you must see sense.”

“I have seen it.” Rhaego was cradled in her arms. The boy’s soft silver hair drifted in the wind. _Targaryen hair,_ Arthur thought, but when stared at the babe’s eyes they were black as coals. “When the khalasar arrives, I mean to break them.”

Aggo used a heavy double-sided axe to chop the fallen log to bits, as the others returned hauling bags of gnarled grass and bark shavings between their furs. Arthur watched them scatter the pale brambles in wide arcs around the ground. On Dany’s word, the handmaids took their horses back down the hill, leading three at a time. By the time they were done, darkness clouded them. 

The order came in a loud voice, as Dany lit a torch and passed it to Irri. She told them gather around her and listen to her words, and so they did. It was Rakharo she approached first. She gave him a arakh chased in gold that had hung from her saddle, and asked if he would be blood of her blood, but kindly he refused. “Khaleesi, “he said, “this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman.” Next came Aggo. To him  she offered gifts as well, a bow of dragonbone and an silver-handled whip, and to be blood of her blood. Still, he refused. Yet their words did not seem to unnerve her.

She came upon Arthur with a smile, one he could not bring himself to return. In her eyes, he saw nothing but calmness. _How?_ She placed a hand on his cheek, and only then did Ser Arthur Dayne notice he was trembling. “The man who raised me, who kept me safe from the Usurper’s knives, taught me how to walk and smile and laugh. I would name you my father… yet even that would not be enough. To me you were Duncan, my blue knight, my protector, but the Seven Kingdoms know you different. Over the Narrow Sea, you are Arthur Dayne, I can remember… who served my father before me. Ser, you are free to do as you please, but I would name you the first and Lord Commander of my Queensguard, to hold an oath and forever stay by my side, whatever may come.”

 _I failed you,_ he thought, _and here I stand again doing nothing._ Arthur slipped to one knee. “Daenerys… Your Grace… you honour me, to be your Queensguard is more than I deserve. You have my oath, from now until my last day. But please…”

The Queen smiled and bid him rise, ignoring his attempts. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. Afterwards, it was Ser Jorah Mormont she approached. The knight still looked frightened at what was occurring before his eyes, apprehensive, and weak. Yet a few words were spoken, and suddenly Jorah Mormont was his sworn brother for evermore.

Jon Snow was next. _Does she mean for him to take an oath?_ She stopped before him, looking up at him in the eyes. “Take out your sword,” she said. Without hesitation, Jon slowly unfurled his tattered blade from its scabbard. She took it from his hands, the hilt and the flat of the steel resting across her palms.

“It’s beautiful,” she said slowly, her eyes gazing at the dragon’s head pommel, the red eyes. The light of the fire danced along the steel and shot silvery-red patterns across their faces. “But it is no true dragon’s blade. When it is in my power, I would gift you the finest longsword of Valyrian steel. Dragonsteel, they call it, forged from our ancestors of Old Valyria. A sword made for a prince.”

Arthur found his breath caught in his throat. She gave him back his sword. “You and my son are the only blood left to me in this world, and together we make the last of House Targaryen… if you would take it, then I offer you this. Let the name Snow be forgotten, your bastardy cast aside. Forget those who ever shunned you or doubted you. Kneel, swear that you will stay by my side, and rise again as Jon Targaryen.”

The boy knelt. _Any ruler can legitimize a bastard in a single stroke, and she is a queen in her own right._ Silent, Dany turned from them and walked towards the edge of the hill. It was in that moment Arthur spotted it. A red comet, a falling star like the sigil of his own House, cutting through the night sky. _An omen, but for what?_ The others stared and rose their voices, and when they brought back their eyes to the queen, she was not looking at them.

“Go. You shall return at dawn.” She said.

It was heavy walk down from the hill, turning his back on her. _Trust her._ Arthur did not dare take his eyes from his feet. _I failed her and she gives me honour’s,_ he grimaced, nearly laughing at the thought of it, or slipping into tears. The memories of his dreams rose up in his mind. When he returned at dawn, would he find her corpse? _I was blind. I still am._

## DAENERYS

Her torch burned brightly, throwing back the shadows of the night. From the edge of the hill, Daenerys Targaryen watched her small khalasar make their way through the grass. It was dark and they carried no torch, but it was the only way they could go unseen. _Arthur doesn’t trust me,_ she thought, _but he will._

Only when the khalasar arrived could she show him, show them all. None of them truly believed her, only Jon. And he was not the first person she had told. Her handmaids stayed beside her day and night, but they had only brushed her words away when she spoke of fire and blood and dragons.

But Jon had listened. She had found him awake one night as they crossed through the grass, after Rhaego had woke her from sleep. He said his dreams were keeping him awake, wolf dreams. He claimed to see through the eyes of Ghost, and for once Dany had not doubted him. She felt as if magic was returning to the world, in both of them. When she pressed her palms to the shell of her dragon eggs, she felt the heat stirring inside. 

Dany had dreamed of Khal Pono and his khalasar riding at their heels, and had seen the black dragon that flew over them and burnt them all to ash. She saw the fire swallow his bloodriders, red bouts of flame scorch his sons and leave his khalasar wild and broken. _I am the dragon in my dreams,_ she thought, feeling the fire within her blood. She turned from the cliffside and walked back into the center, the wind brushing at her face.

They had placed the logs and shavings in three great circles, covering the face of the hill. The light from her torch danced along the wood and sent shadows writhing whenever she moved. _I am the light in the darkness._ When Pono saw her upon her high hill, he would have no second thoughts of coming to retrieve her himself.

Daenerys looked up at the stars, at her comet. The gods could not have sent her a stronger sign. A dragon’s tail, a red sword piercing the night. _Justice,_ she thought, _yesterday I was a girl, today I am a woman, and tomorrow I will be old._

The face of her child swam before her, etched in the grass. _Rhaego_ , she had named him, for Rhaegar. He had his mother’s hair and his father’s eyes. _Will he be a warrior like my brother?_ In that instant, she saw her child grow old, and tough and strong. _Like his mother,_ she thought as she watched him swing an arakh made of wind. When she blinked, he was gone. Dany looked down at the dragon eggs at her feet. Green and black and gold, drinking in the light. By the time she finally took her eyes off them, she could hear horses.

Khal Pono had arrived with his ten thousand riders. The grass beneath her feet shivered as the smash of hooves filled the air. They had all been her husband’s, every man that followed Pono or Jhaqo, any man they called blood of their blood had sulked beneath Drogo’s gaze. _They all feared him when he lived,_ she thought, _and_ _they shall fear me now._ Drogo was strong, but she was blood of the dragon. Before the night was done, Pono would beg for the mercy they showed her the moment her sun-and-stars fell from his horse.

Daenerys closed her eyes and listened to them surrounding her. Her only hope was that they had not come upon Jon and the others. Her khalasar could not fall… _they must see._ As her eyes crept to the flames burning at the end of her torch, and the wide circles of kindling at her feet, she knew in her heart that they would.

A thousand years ago, the scared girl she had been had feared Pono and his frightful black eyes. As she had feared her sun-and-stars most of all, and Haggo and Qotho and her brother Viserys. When she saw Khal Pono rise over the crest of the hill, ahorse with arakh in hand, Daenerys felt nothing but a dragon’s fury.

Behind him were his bloodriders, bells chinking in their braids as they rode, and then came his sons. Dany remembered the dragon in her dreams as they spread out before her. Engulfing them, defeating them.

“Maegi,” Khal Pono said, as if that was all she ever was, all she had ever been. Torchlight swam along the black of his eyes. “You killed Drogo, I saw it. I have found you for this, woman. You will die, but only when we are done with you.”

Dany held the torch steady in her hands, watching as they cantered around her. “Bitch!” they growled all at once, and more calls of maegi and lamb woman took the air.

“Where are those who followed you?” Pono demanded, standing ten feet away from her.

 _Not yet._ “They are watching.” Dany said. She lifted her chin high, beckoning the khal to come closer.

“Watching? I will find them. They will watch my men have you, and my horses and my dogs before the crows eat out their eyes.”

“You will not leave this hill.” Dany said, so quiet he could not hear her words, but even the mere moving of her lips angered him. He cantered forward.

_Wake the dragon._

Daenerys let as many as she could climb up on the hill, until she felt the heat overcome her, and dropped the torch.

The grass and wood burst asunder as the oil surged with red light. Embers leapt up into the air. Dany heard a swoosh dance across her ears as she watched the flames spread. When the first line of kindling was alight, the second was not long to join it. Everywhere horse’s scarpered, throwing their riders from the saddle, their tails and manes alight. Those who tried to flee fell from the hill, hurling to their deaths. Dany heard their bones crack. Chaos reigned. Great red-orange robes began to flicker up at the stars, and swallowed up her enemies in one great gush.

Screams cracked through the flames. The wails of dying men and horses. Dany felt the ground turn warm beneath her feet. The burning remains of her clothes tickled against her skin. The fire rose higher and higher, licking at the sky, great plumes of smoke shadowing the moon.

In the blaze, she saw the shape of dragons made from smoke. Three great beasts that swam through the flames, raining fire down upon her. She smiled and opened her arms as her hair began to sear. A great crack shook the ground beneath her. Dany closed her eyes and let the heat embrace her, swallow her whole. Arthur was wrong to fear, for she had never been so alive as she was now.

Cinders showered her, and when the second crack came as loud as thunder, Dany looked down at her dragon eggs. The pale egg veined with gold was broken and smoldering, smoke rising into her face. The screams of men burnt to an end. _The fire is mine._ Her eyes came upon the largest egg, black as night and glowing red. The only one left.

As the egg split in two and the firestorm kissed her face, Dany saw ghostly wisps writhing in the flames. She saw Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons. Beside her was a man with a face of shadows, wielding a sword of light against the coming darkness. Men and woman and kings and queens rose and fell, until the fire consumed them all and she was the last woman standing.

When dawn came, the air smelt of smoke. Birds circled overhead, black crows signaling her coming. Dany looked to the red sword cutting through the pale blue sky, and through the ash falling around her, she saw her khalasar on their knees. Knelt amongst the charred and blackened remains of Pono and his men, her bloodriders laid their arakh’s at her feet. “Blood of my blood,” they murmured together.

Arthur, her Lord Commander, drew forth his pale sword and laid it before him. The white blade burned against the black grass. _He has seen._ “Your Grace,” he made the title an oath, “my Queen.”

“My Queen,” echoed Jorah.

“My blood,” Jon said. He unsheathed his sword, then plunged it through the dirt at his feet. “My Queen.” 

When her black dragon hissed, the air seared from its breath. His two brothers rose to join the call, smoke venting from their mouths and nostrils as they sucked in the air.

Daenerys Targaryen breathed with them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can call this chapter the end of the beginning! Things will be picking up from now on for our small bunch, as they make their way back towards some civilisation.


End file.
